So Long as I Have This
by emmiemac
Summary: When Sansa returns to Winterfell, she must take on the duties of Warden of the North until her brother Rickon comes of age. But the responsibilities of waging a war, running a keep, surviving the winter and keeping her bannermen's fealty mean that Sansa may have to give up Sandor. Can she be the Lady of Winterfell and still remain Sandor's little bird? Future fic. Sansa POV.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire_

**So long as I have this**

Sandor was reaching his peak. Sansa could tell by the way he stopped caressing her to hold her tightly and because he moved his face, which had been hovering heavy-lidded and intense over hers, to bury it into her neck and her rich auburn hair.

"Little bird…" he breathed.

"Oh Sandor," she whispered to him. She wrapped her legs tightly around him now, locking her ankles together over his behind, and slid her slender hands down his broad back, feeling the scars and the tensing of his muscles. Their bodies were warm and covered in a fine glow of sweat in the chill of her chamber. She could see the flickering light of the fire in the hearth on the dark ceiling now that she could see over his shoulder. She closed her eyes and felt her breath come quickly as Sandor brought her to her own peak as well.

The slow, deep churning of his hips stopped and he thrust quick and hard and grunted from his throat until his breath hitched and his grunts sounded more like sobs to her ears.

"Yes, my love," she urged him passionately as she arched and pressed her body closely against his. A wonderful trembling and a rush of warmth flooded through her as she clutched his back and shoulder and she sighed.

"Gods, girl," he groaned and shuddered as he held her so tightly and pushed himself onto her so deeply that she flinched and gasped. She felt the strong pulsing of his cock as he spent himself inside her and then the trickle of his seed as he settled on her, panting.

"Come here," he rasped as he rolled off of her and pulled her close in his arms in one great motion that took all the bedclothes over to his side with them. Sansa felt the faint warmth of the dying fire on her back and the cooler air of the winter drafts that plagued Winterfell as she looked up at him from the crook of his powerful shoulder and arm.

"I love you, Sandor."

He heaved a sigh and never opened his eyes. "Sleep now, girl," he told her quietly and then nodded off himself.

Sansa tucked the furs around them and gazed at him in the dim firelight of her chamber, her heart filled with love and gratitude and all the things she wished to say to him. _I know you love me too. I wish we could always be together like this. Surely he'll want to now, after this night of being so close. _He had come to her as he had promised, loving her with a tenderness and fierceness that she remembered from their first nights together, before they reached Winterfell; and she felt a contentment that surpassed any she had felt since she had returned home.

_So long as I have this with him, I can do what is needed; I can do anything._

She brushed the back of her hand against his scarred cheek, caressing the burns that had frightened her so much as a girl; then leaned in to gently kiss him before settling close to him and letting sleep take her.

When she stirred just in the hour before dawn, Sandor was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa had quickly sponged off her bedsheet when she had awoken to hide the stain left by their coupling the night before, and then made her own bed before any of the women who came to help her dress could see. That morning Lady Maege Mormont, head of House Mormont of Bear Island came to see her, followed by a plain-faced wildling named Squirrel who had been at Winterfell since Jon had sent Mance Raider to rescue the girl thought to be Arya from the Boltons. Sansa found Squirrel impudent at times but knew that she was a hard worker and got work out of most of the others as well. She all but ran the kitchen most days and Sansa, who knew how to run a household but did not know much about the most basic tasks involved, was grateful for her presence.

Squirrel set down a bowl of thin porridge and stepped to Sansa to help her finish dressing. She did not ask permission or even greet her but simply turned Sansa abruptly by her shoulder and yanked hard at her lacings.

"Mades yer own bed, I sees. Did'ye even sleep, girl?" she drawled.

"She's Lady Sansa, you wildling devil. If manners are too difficult for you to understand then keep your mouth shut at least," the She-Bear unbraided her.

"Our lady's part wildlin' 'erself, like th'young lord'd be," Squirrel chuckled, referring to the Stark's wildling ancestor Bael the Bard which earned her a huff of impatience from the formidable She-Bear warrior.

"Go on now, I need a word with our lady."

Maege Mormont's shrewd eyes glanced over at the bed as she approached Sansa now.

"Here, let me help you," she offered as she reached to tie off the back of Sansa's grey wool gown. "Gods, you've the look of you mother. She was a good woman, and strong, even though she was not of the North. You're more of the North than she was," the She-Bear nodded knowingly, "and you've your father in you as well. We're all behind you, my lady, never fear that: you and young Rickon. The North needs Starks in Winterfell," she finished.

"I thank you," Sansa replied. "We were taught that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"There is still much to do to keep you here," the older woman replied briskly now. "Your shield Clegane has been up since dawn, greeting and gathering information from the scouts coming in. There are enemies in the woods and we needs plan an attack. Eat your porridge, my lady; then come to the hall."

….

It had snowed heavily overnight and into the morning and the yard was blanketed as Sansa crossed it to gather in the Great Hall of Winterfell with her brother Rickon, their great-uncle Blackfish Tully and the Northern lords and commanders. Sandor, as her sworn shield and now one of Rickon's commanders, was with them at the table nearest the hearth. It pained her sometimes still to see her father's home, the hall and keep, so bare of furnishings, scarred from fire and from being sacked and so cold and empty of the people she had known all her life. But those here now where her people, and her life: she was Warden of the North to them, and the Stark in Winterfell. She looked upon them and smiled in sincere gratitude.

"My lady."

Her lords and commanders all stood to greet her as she sat in a chair placed for her at the head of the table. Sandor stood at the far end, looking grimly determined. Sansa longed for anything from him, a glance, a nod, even a twich of his scarred mouth, something that would show he loved her; but she knew she would never have it, least of all in the presence of others.

She looked down now at the worn map that had been spread open on the table before her as the men explained to her how many men had been spotted and where.

"These are the most men we have tracked at one time, my lady; if they were stragglers then they have found each other and joined forces, or, more likely, the Boltons have sent more men from the Dreadfort."

"Mayhaps the kingslaying bastard and false-warden has grown a wee bit bolder since Stannis returned to the Wall and is testing us; but we'll flush them out by their…out of the woods, my lady," the Greatjon told her, nodding over his tankard.

"The new fallen snow makes them easy to track," said a man of House Condon.

"Aye," Sandor agreed, "but it will make us easy to track as well; we don't want them circling behind us and following in our own tracks to ambush our rear guard."

"Northmen know to track and fight in winter, Clegane," the man challenged him disparagingly.

"And if they are Bolton forces, they are also Northmen…even if they aren't loyal to the Starks," Sandor sneered dangerously. The Condons had fought under Roose Bolton until the Red Wedding and while most of their surviving members had fled to the Neck to wait to fight for the North again, some had remained loyal to the Bolton Overlord.

"Clegane has adapted perfectly well to fighting in winter, as I am sure Lord Umber will attest," the Blackfish interrupted smoothly in his smoky voice, "and he makes a valid point of strategy. Let us address it then."

"How are such sorties conducted, Lord Umber?" Sansa asked respectfully now. "Do you march in single file?"

The Greatjon's shrewd eyes wrinkled up as he smiled with delight. "You are true girl of the North, my lady. Men follow in each other's footsteps, horses follow the same path. The enemy cannot guess your numbers that way."

Sansa nodded her understanding, though Sandor had explained tracking to her on their way North to Winterfell. He had taught her many things so that she might survive if they were separated or he was killed. She had learned more of the North from a Westerman than from any instinct. Arya had been a natural, Sandor had told her and she was ashamed to have felt a peevish jealousy. She suspected that if Arya were with them, she would want to lead the sortie. She felt a sweet sadness whenever she thought of Arya, and sometimes asked Sandor to recount his stories of her sister from when they crossed the Riverlands.

"Shaggydog can track better than any man, even a Northman," Rickon piped up suddenly. "Let me and Shaggy find them: we'll kill them all."

Sansa smiled sweetly at her youngest brother: he was so wild and fearless and would be the next Lord Stark. Squirrel was not wrong about Rickon: he was very much still a wildling thanks to the care of the woman called Osha.

"You and your direwolf needs stay and guard your sister," Sandor rasped, "for I'm to lead this sortie."

A heavy silence followed in which only the crackling of the fire in the great hearth could be heard; this despite the rationed firewood at Winterfell.

"Why you, Clegane?"

"Because it's dangerous. We'll be moving in small groups, one after the other so that the enemy cannot double back on us; there will always be another group behind them if they do. We may catch them between groups and surround them. But if they come up behind the last group, or ambush the first, might be they'll outnumber us."

"We're all prepared to face danger, Clegane-" the Condon man interrupted sourly.

"Good: you can join the second group then. But I'm leading." His eyes swept those around the table, finally lighting on Sansa's before moving away. "I'm expendable. I'm not a lord, or family, or a Northerner; but I'll fight and die for you anyway. I've sworn to for my lady."

Everyman turned to look at Sansa. She sat rigidly still, fearful that she would tremble if she moved or spoke. But she knew she must speak.

"We are grateful, as ever, for your loyalty and your bravery Sandor Clegane." She spoke levelly and determinedly. "My Lord Umber, great-uncle Brynden: do you approve this sortie and the manner in which it will be led?"

"We do, my lady," the Blackfish murmured.

"Very well," she replied, "w-when will you leave?"

"By midday; we should reach the Wolfswood by dusk. We will hope they are hiding during the day so as not to be seen. If they have been scouting out Winterfell, we should pick up a trail inside of the tree line."

Sansa stood gracefully now and raised her chin. "My lords, my lady, commanders: I thank you for your council. I will pray for you and for your success and for the North."

"For the North," their voices echoed in the Great Hall.

Her eyes once more found Sandor's and then slid away. She left the Great Hall and, raising the hood on her cloak and wrapping it tightly around her against the heavy snowfall, she crossed the yard to enter the godswood.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa stood near the Heart tree but had turned away from its face and looked instead into the nearest hot pool and saw her own sad face reflected back at her. She kept on staring even she saw his towering reflection behind her in the dark water.

"I've come to say goodbye," he rasped.

"Is that not what you did last night?" she asked. "Is that not why you came to me…because you were leaving again?"

"Am I a sorcerer that I knew what word the scouts would bring back with them? I came to you last night because I said I would. I came to you because I wanted to."

Sansa turned to him now. He stood tall in his plain armour and fur-lined cloak, his gauntleted hand resting on his sword hilt: a commander of _her_ army, her sworn shield and still a fierce fighter and killer. But he was different too: despite his stern and scarred face, he no longer seethed with rage, nor hated everyone and everything. He loved her; she knew he did. He had told her, when they had been together, just the two of them on the way back to Winterfell. He had also warned her then, that they would needs hide their love once they were among others, for they would still see him as the Hound, possibly even the Butcher of Saltpans though the Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle had dutifully informed the High Septon that was impossible: the man known as the Hound had been recovering from wounds under the care of the Penitent Brothers when Saltpans fell under attack from brigands. Still, not all had welcomed him to Winterfell and many were still wary despite Sansa's loyalty to him…or perhaps because of it.

She shook her head gently in bewilderment. "How can you call yourself expendable Sandor? You know how important you are to me, and to Rickon and the fighting-"

"Am I a Stark, a noble lord or even a Northman?" he asked her firmly. "Those we've fought so far have been starving stragglers who were always outnumbered by our forces. We've been lucky so far; but now it might be our luck has run out. Better it's me leading the vanguard if it has. The other will blame me if we fail and keep fighting for you; but if you send in the Greatjon or the Blackfish and you lose family or a lord…and they may think your cause weak or even doomed."

"You have been invaluable to our family's cause Sandor, even in bringing me back to Winterfell. You mean more to me than anyone, even my great-uncle or lord Umber," she assured him gently.

"Your cause and your Winterfell are not secure, girl; not yet." His grey eyes held hers sternly and she understood how very serious he was.

"That is all the more reason I- we need you, Sandor," she looked up at him appealingly, hoping to soften his resolve but he remained insistent.

"Aye, you need me to fight; not to stay by your side any longer as your shield…or anything more," he continued. He absently brushed snow off his thin dark hair which still fell over the burned side of his face. The snow continued to fall and covered the branches of the heart tree which was bare but for some stray red leaves scattered in the top branches. The mournful carved face of the weirwood seemed to watch them, its red eyes still visible despite the sleet covering the bark of the tree..

Sansa felt her heart tighten in her chest. "I don't understand," she began faintly, though she suspected that she did.

Sandor took a deep breath. "If our forces should falter," he paused, "you may needs make an alliance to keep your family's seat; you may need to do so simply to survive. Might be I brought you home, little bird; but you are still in the game: like as not."

"No," she countered with a trembling voice. "I will not be a pawn; I will not be used again."

"Look around you, little bird; look at these crumbled walls under mounds of snow and then look at your shivering men and meager rations. You're all you have to bargain with," he rasped darkly. "Stannis may be too busy at the wall to think of rewarding one of his men with your hand. Or he may remember too well that you are not free to marry," he intoned with a disparaging ring, reminding her that in the eyes of the Faith Sansa Stark was still Lady Lannister. Stannis certainly had no love for the Lannisters but he believed in duty above all things and might believe she belonged with her once-husband; or at least with no one else until he had him executed.

Sansa gasped now at the painful reminder of her forced marriage, and turned away from him. Sandor stepped closer.

"The lad they claim is young Aegon is fighting up from the south. If he decides to unite the Seven Kingdoms with a Northern bride, you might be able to count on him for your annulment from the Imp…provided that you should be willing to marry again."

She was suddenly much colder: the wet of the heavy snow was seeping through her hair and her cloak and even her gown but this bitter, icy cold she could feel all over was from his cold words. She took a deep breath and stood taller and raised her chin.

"I won't be his queen. I won't be anyone's queen," she insisted quietly but firmly.

"Or it might be the Targaryen maid and her dragons that come. They say the Imp is her advisor. The Starks fought for Robert in the Rebellion; fought against her kingly father and princely brother. Have you thought that her price for your lives and your family's seat might be for you to return to your lord husband?"

Sansa whirled back to him. "No!" She insisted passionately. "He is _not_ my husband; I am not his wife! I never wanted him nor was I ever his. You know this, Sandor: I am no man's but your's-"

Sander's eyes widened and he stepped closer quickly to place his hand over her mouth.

"Hush, girl. Do you want to be heard? Surely you knew this could not be, not for long?" He rasped insistently.

"No. No, I do not accept that, Sandor: you promised. You promised to take me away from here if this should happen. Why do you say these things now to hurt me? How can you believe that I would go back-" she paused to catch her breath, then shut her eyes in denial, "-that I could ever go back to the life I _hated_ so."

"You would sacrifice your life or your family's seat just to have me warm your bed, girl? She has _dragons._ " Sandor paused to let Sansa understand what he was saying. Dragons breathed fire: even if they left Winerfell there would be no place for them to hide from dragons. "We thought you might be the last Stark, but it is not just us anymore, little bird. Now what of Rickon…of all the others here: the Blackfish, and the commons and freefolk-"

"Stop. Oh, please stop." Sansa partly turned away again and shook her head, her face in her hands. "He won't want me," she whispered after a moment. "If he had wanted me…" she trailed off dispiritedly.

"He would have had you from the first, you mean? You were little more a child then, girl." He reached out to take her chin in his gauntleted hand and turned her face back to him. "You were beautiful even then. And look at you now," he rasped. "There's not a man in the Seven Kingdoms would not want you, little bird; most of all the one man with the rights to you."

Sansa pulled her cloak tighter around her and crossed her arms protectively over her body. "He won't," she spoke dully, "not when I tell him that it's you I love, and that-"

Sandor grabbed her arms and pulled her close to him, nearly shaking her.

"I thought you had learned better by now, girl," he growled at her. "You would think to risk your brother, your home, your people for _me_? I won't let you." He let go of her and she could see him struggle and set his jaw firmly. "After this campaign I'm leaving," he spoke with finality.

"No, Sandor, please: you can't." Sansa's Tully-blue eyes were wide with alarm.

"I can and I will."

"But where will you go? Nowhere is safe for you and it is winter besides-" Her voice had begun to tremble and she blinked so that her eyes would not fill with tears.

"I've survived this long and will again. I crossed the Riverlands and part of the North with you; might be I'll travel faster on my own," Sandor asserted now, avoiding her gaze.

"We traveled the North with Lord Reed and Lady Mormont and their soldiers, and it was not yet so cold," she reminded him. "And if you should go to the Wall, then Stannis may pass judgement on you for deserting the Kingsguard; I am not the only one who abandoned my duties," she reminded him. "Please Sandor," she placed a slender hand on the cold steel of his vambrance, "do not leave," she almost sobbed. "There is much fighting still to be done; you have said so yourself. And Rickon is so fond of you, he admires you so." She hung her head in defeat now; she could not bear to have him leave, even if he would not be her's. "I- I'll do what I have to do…though I would rather spend my days here with you, Sandor, for the rest of our lives." Her voice had thinned to a whisper. "Just promise me, Sandor, promise that if I must go, that you will stay in Winterfell with Rickon. I- I will entrust him to no one but you."

Sandor looked down on her. She thought his face softened slightly but he quickly ducked his head, almost bowing. More snow fell from his broad shoulders and dark hair.

"As my lady wishes," he rasped quietly. He had grown fond of Rickon as well.

She tightened her hand on his arm now, though doubtless he could not feel it. The silence of the Godswood was deepened by the blanket of heavy white snow. Sansa felt that deathly cold and silence had covered her heart, for she had just promised to do what she thought she would never have to do again.

_Mayhaps I will not have to. I will pray to the old gods: they will understand I must stay here with- with Rickon._

"Come back to us, Sandor," she pleaded softly. "We need you." _I need you._

He had still not looked at her again. She wanted to reach him, to let him know that she wanted only him, wanted him to come back to Winterfell and to her, to her bed.

"Please," she murmured as she reached around the back of her head, "take this-"

"That's the last ribbon you have, little bird," he reminded her, "I'll not take it from you."

"A-a lock of hair them," she offered almost desperately. "Give me your dagger."

Sandor grabbed the wrist of the hand she held out for his knife so hard the metal of his gauntlet pinched her skin.

"No."

Sansa looked up at him now. "Will you take nothing; and leave me nothing, Sandor?"

He gazed steadily at her with stormy grey eyes. "Has everything that has passed between us meant nothing?"

Sansa shook her head slowly. "No, of course not- It has been the best, the only happiness I have had since I first left Winterfell, Sandor."

"Then I leave you with that, little bird," he rasped low before leaning in quickly to kiss her forehead. He bowed abruptly and turned, leaving her alone again in the godswood and the endlessly falling snow.


	4. Chapter 4

After taking a moment to gather herself, Sansa followed behind Sandor. Her army was leaving to fight and she would see them off as was proper. She was still a lady who remembered her courtesies; and now she was an acting warden who remembered her responsibilities. She walked from group to group and greeted the men by name or title, her breath fogging in the icy air as she lauded their skills and courage and she promised them that the North would surely rise again thanks to their efforts. She was pleased and proud to see Rickon doing much the same, though he had left Shaggydog in the keep so as not to make the soldiers' mounts jittery. Sansa did not hear the direwolf howling, and so trusted that they were safe. Finally she came across the Greatjon leading the final group of soldiers. She approached him with slender hands outstretched in warmth and gratitude.

"Lord Umber, I am ever grateful for your loyalty and ferocity in the service of our house and to the North. I will pray for your safe return," she told him sincerely, though she wondered how the stubborn old warrior had come to be leading the rear guard. The Greatjon read her thoughts.

"Your man Clegane asked me to bring up the rear, my lady: says he wants a man he can trust covering his arse… Beg your pardon, my lady," he chuckled, "though I expect you are now familiar with our rough ways. If any of Bolton's traitors attack, they'll be caught between me and Clegane; so you can count that they'll be done for, my lady."

"Thank you, Lord Umber; but the soldier in the second group who questioned my sworn shield-" she began.

"Condon's man? Full of piss, if you'll forgive me again, my lady; but we need such young men to fight," he leaned in confidentially, "but not to lead." The gruff old man winked at her and she laughed. "Now," he boomed, "can an old soldier beg a kiss of his pretty lady before riding off to fight?"

Sansa stretched on tiptoe to kiss his ruddy, bearded cheek and the Greatjon howled with delight.

"There's not a man in all the Seven Kingdoms can withstand me now! For my lady, and for the North," he cried as he mounted up and turned to the gate.

Sansa remained until all the men had ridden out before nodding to the attendants to shut the gate behind them. Then she stood standing in the cold, staring at the closed wooden gates and clutching the fur collar of her cloak tightly around her neck.

_Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war-_

"Sansa!" Rickon cried as he ran to her. "Did you see them all? We'll win for certain, won't we? Sandor is leading them."

She smiled bravely into his excited face. His Tully blue eyes were wide and trusting and his hair was a mess of overlong auburn curls. She often longed to brush or cut it but he resisted; he had only recently begun to acquire the simple table manners of a well-born young man, much less a lord-in-waiting. Sansa thought it best to proceed slowly with his wild ways. She sighed inwardly.

"You're right, Rickon: Sandor Clegane will certainly return victorious, with all our soldiers behind him. Come with me, let's go find Shaggydog and walk up on the walls. We can watch the soldiers ride out towards the Wolfswood before sundown."

….

After supping with those who remained in Winterfell at the tables in the Great Hall, Sansa saw Rickon off to bed before retiring to her chamber. The days and daylight hours were very short and so those who did not gather in the Great Hall for warmth and company usually retired early to sleep under furs, like hibernating bears. She stood idly by the shuttered window and waited as a boy brought her ration of firewood and a young girl brought a flagon of water. Sansa remembered the girl from when she had arrived at the gates of Winterfell, begging to be taken in.

She had been a skinny, big-eyed child with snarled hair who had pledged to work hard and to only eat a little. Sansa had needed to restrain herself from embracing the poor orphan and instead had replied gently that the girl was welcome at Winterfell and would be fed the same as everyone. She had worked diligently and grown stronger in a very short time, even having her first moon's blood. Sansa, together with Lady Mormont and Rickon's wildling protector Osha, had explained her flowering to the frightened girl, who had thought she was wounded or dying.

The thought of moon's blood and the flagon of water reminded Sansa that she needed to drink her moon tea. She had lain with Sandor the night before and so now reached for the stoppered bottle she kept hidden in her worn leather satchel beneath loose floorboards. Sandor had bought her the makings for moon tea from an old woman when they had passed through the Neck, telling the crone that his young wife had been set upon by brigands in the Riverlands, and that he was taking her to White Harbor to sail to Essos and away from the fighting. The old woman had tutted sadly as she expertly mixed the tea and filled the little jar and then given him precise instructions for the use of the tea. She further counselled him to treat his young wife tenderly, lest she remember her terrible attack when she lay with him.

"Love her, protect her, and when the time is right give her _your_ children," she had rasped in a voice as dry as Sandor's was rough. Her cloudy eyes still peered sharply at him as she spoke.

"Aye, old woman: that I'll do," Sandor replied absently as he counted out his coin, but the old woman narrowed her eyes further and stared longer before finally nodding to him. He backed away from her instead of turning to leave. He could not have said why. Sansa had smiled gently when he recounted the exchange to her and told him that the old woman only had kind intentions, for doubtless she had heard such stories before. He had purchased enough of the moon tea to last some time though they had later supplemented her store by buying more from women in villages in the North. Sandor had been sternly insistent that Sansa not risk having bastards, fearing it would jeopardize her position as the Stark in Winterfell around whom the North could rally and rise. She had never thought that he meant for her to marry for strategic advantage again or worse, return to Tyrion Lannister.

_He promised me, _she thought mournfully. _He promised to take me away where none would ever find us. He told me that he loved me._

That had been before they knew that Bran and Rickon lived, and that Stannis Baratheon's man Davos, known as the Onion knight, had found Rickon on Skagos at Lord Manderly's insistence and returned him to Winterfell, restoring the Stark family to their seat. Sansa had been dumbfounded when Lord Reed had told her, and fearful to hear how wild her brother had become living amongst savages and wildlings. She knew that she had to go to him, to help him reclaim their family's rightful place in the North, even if it meant paying homage to Stannis as many Northmen had when Stannis first restored the Glovers to Deepwood Motte. They had been fortunate that Stannis was not at Winterfell but had returned to the Wall, and that Rickon was in the care of the Northern Lords and surrounded by their soldiers. Her little brother was safe but not very happy: he kept asking for his family. But when Sansa arrived he simply stared at her and asked if she were his sister for true. She had been heartbroken that he did not remember her, and that he was not the sweet little boy she remembered either. But Shaggydog had accepted her, and she had embraced the large direwolf, sinking her hands and face into the dark fur and remembering her direwolf Lady. Rickon then walked to her slowly when she had held out her arms to him, and she had rocked him and smoothed his tangled hair and promised that she would not leave him again.

"We're home now, Rickon; we're home to stay. I'll look after you, like mother and father would have wanted."

Finally he had hugged her back and sniffled but when she pulled away to look into his eyes she could still see his uncertainty and anger.

_I promised him too. I promised never to leave him. I can't._

She looked down at the stoppered jar she held in her hands and sucked in her breath.

_If I have a bastard child, no man will want me. I'll be ruined…and I would have to stay in Winterfell._

Sansa sat stunned at her own realization. For all that she had seen and suffered, she was at heart still a gentle lady who knew her courtesies. To birth a bastard child would be a comedown, a rejection of all the proprieties she had learned as a girl, from Septa Mordane…and her own lady mother.

Sansa's conscience weighed heavily on her as she tried to imagine her late parents and how they might react if they were to see her now: acting as a warden, sending men off to battle, sharing her bed with a man not her husband and now considering having his child. The child would be a bastard, like Jon was. Her father had loved him, as had Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon; but not her mother. Lady Catelyn Stark considered her husband's bastard a betrayal and had barely tolerated his presence in their home, believing it an affront to her. Sansa loved her mother, but she now thought that she had acted with poor grace towards her half-brother. Sansa could sympathize with Jon now, having been forced to act the part of a bastard herself in the guise of Alayne Stone in the Eyrie.

She clutched the small jar closer to herself. If she had a child she would not have to marry for an alliance or return to Tyrion Lannister but she could…she _would_ lose Sandor.

_The lady or Winterfell can't have bastards; and I won't be father to any either,_ he'd rasped grimly and she had agreed.

She unstopped the cork from the greenish jar and inhaled the smell of tansy and mint. She had promised him that she would take it, just as instructed. She could not lie to him, or betray him. Could she?

_A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._

Sans did not want to break her word to Sandor: he had never lied to her and she trusted him completely. She had chirped lies and empty courtesies for so long that she could not bear to do so any longer, nor to lose his trust in her. But if he did not return…

Sansa hated to think of it, feeling it another betrayal. But the sortie was dangerous, he had said so himself. If Sandor were to be killed- Sansa was nearly sick at the thought- she would have nothing of him but memories: sweet, beautiful, tender memories of their love but then nothing but emptiness and loss for the rest of her days.

But if she were to have his child, she thought as she hugged herself for comfort, she would be not so terribly sad to have a part of him for always. Mayhaps the child would be a boy, a tall, strong boy who would look just like him, though without the fearsome scars; and she would give the child all the love that Sandor did not have as a boy. And she would _never_ have to marry another.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a sharp rap on her chamber door.

"Lady Sansa," came the voice of Maege Mormont, "do I disturb you too late?"

Sansa hastily capped the jar of moon tea and let it slide to the floor, pushing it beneath the bed with her fur-wrapped foot. Boots and shoes were a luxury in Winterfell; and so she wore fur slippers tied about the ankle with leather laces whenever she was indoors.

"Pray come in, Lady Mormont," she told the older woman when she poked her grey head through a crack in the heavy door. Sansa wrapped her shawl tightly around herself as a blustery draft swirled through the chamber. Lady Maege Mormont, in heavy wool breeches and tunic and still wearing her mail overtop did not seem to notice the cold.

_Bear Island must be far colder than Winterfell_, _and their hall is only made of logs_, Sansa thought. She liked the tough old woman: she held the title of Lady of Bear Island and was a fierce warrior. She wished that Arya could know her as well.

_Arya. Come back to us, sister, wherever you are. You belong in Winterfell._

"I wished to report to you, my lady, that the remaining soldiers and guards are patrolling the walls and gates and yard and the castle. We are well-manned despite our commanders being out. So you may sleep well; or if you are frightened, I can send you one of my daughters for company," the woman offered her. Her daughters Lyra and Jorelle were in Winterfell with their mother while their older sister, Alysane, fought with Stannis; her youngest Lyanna had stayed at Bear Island.

"No," Sansa answered quickly, knowing she still needed her privacy to decide about the moon tea. "I thank you for your concern, Lady Mormont. I would not deprive you of their company: you are so very fond of one another. Pray tell me how your youngest fares; I am concerned that a child so young should be alone."

"My Lyanna is well guarded, my lady, and there are places to hide on Bear Island where none would find her if they tried. My girls are well trained in taking care of themselves and others."

Sansa blushed. "Forgive me; I must seem a weak and foolish girl to such warrior-women as yourselves…"

"I think you are neither, my lady, your task as warden is in many ways greater than theirs. You need advisorsyou're your own guard, unlike them," Maege Mormont, replied firmly. "Though, if you will forgive me, I do think of you as a girl. Being a mother of five girls I cannot help myself," she paused awkwardly as her smile faded perceptibly. "I am mother to four girls now," she amended.

Sansa reached out her hands to her in comfort. "I am as ever sorry for your loss, Lady Mormont; that your Dacey should have lost her life with my mother and brother King Robb at the Twins. We can never hope to reward you for what your loyalty has cost-"

"Hush, girl: my Dacey could have done no different but serve her lord and king, as have I. It was treachery of the basest kind," her lip curled in bitterness and anger, "but we will kill them all, my lady," she squeezed Sansa's hands so tightly now they hurt. "We will kill them all."

Sansa bit her lip now, and the aptly named She-Bear released her hands.

"Forgive me child, I'm a tough old She-Bear," she stated, "and my girls are tough young she-bears. They will do as they must, as my Dacey did. Alysane is the heir to Bear Island now, though her young ones are not like to inherit; she will not say who their father is, other than to claim it was a real bear. She has no use for the moon-tea, my girl," Maege Mormont eyed her sharply, "but I still know the scent of tansy when I smell it." She stepped closer and put her hand on Sansa's shoulder now, lowering her voice when she spoke again. "Are you in the family way, child? There's women here who can help you through it. It can be a nasty business to bleed out a babe if it's well fixed; and we can't lose you so soon after getting you back."

Sansa started with a gasp; then stammered wildly as she felt her face flush hot. "I-I…I am not…that is…there is no need, Lady Mormont-"

Maege Mormont took her hand again. "I know you care for him, child," she said with surprising gentleness, "and I am no more a dainty lady regarding these matters than I am with regard to any others."

Sansa stood shaking as her eyes filled. "Does- does everyone know?" she asked tremulously. Sandor would be furious if he knew anyone suspected; and he might leave her.

"Gods, no," the old she-bear scoffed. "Most men'd be too blind; and they expect a beauty such as yourself to pine after a shining knight of songs and stories, not to share your bed with a burned dog."

Now it was Sansa's turn to scoff. "I have learned too well, my lady, what such knights are truly worth." She raised her chin, almost defiant. "I'd rather my dog, Lady Mormont, though he is not that; not anymore and not to me…never to me," she whispered faintly.

"I know, child; I know it must have been very bad for you in the Red Keep, and married to that Lannister Imp; and then stolen away by Littlefinger… Gods be good, child: you deserve your happiness now."

Sansa smiled weakly in gratitude. "Do I? I don't know that any others would share your generosity of spirit, Lady Mormont; certainly Sandor- Commander Clegane," she corrected herself, "does not believe they will."

Maege Mormont hesitated then nodded curtly. "Clegane's not wrong, child: don't misunderstand now, I like a strong man with who is rough around the edges, and he's making a good name for himself here with his martial skills and his loyalty to you and to the lad and to the North…but he was the Hound, even if you say he is no longer; and the Lannister's Hound at that." She nodded sagely now. "The North remembers, child."

"I am a Stark of Winterfell," Sansa replied hotly, "I _am_ the North…as much as my brother or any man here who fought for my father and brother Robb. If I deem Sandor Clegane worthy, Lady Mormont, who are _they_ to tell me he is not?"

Maege Mormont squinted at her, and a wide smile broke out across her weathered face.

"You are a Stark indeed, child; and fierce as your brother's direwolf when you chose to be, I see." The old She-Bear cackled delightedly. "Now, what about this tea then? Shall I put your pot on the fire, my lady? Do we need more linens? You can't be too far along," she observed, examining Sansa's waist from different angles, "but mayhaps it's best we call the maester anyways?"

Sansa shook her head sadly, "There is no need for the maester, or linens," she sighed now. "I-I drink it when…whenever we have been…been together," she blushed deeply now. "I continue to drink it every third night until my moon's blood is upon me. It is only days until then."

"Still it's best to be sure than to be sorry: to wait too long is a greater danger to you," the old woman said knowingly. She took up the flagon of water and emptied it into a small pot on the mantle. "Bring me the tea, child; I'll see this through with you before I head back to the walls."

Resigned now to fulfilling her promise to Sandor, Sansa kneeled by the bed and reached underneath for the little jar. Suddenly she recoiled in horror.

"No," she protested, "oh no!"

"Gods, what's happened child?" Maege Mormont rushed to her side.

Sansa raised her hand to show her palm sooty with ash and dotted with flecks of tea leaves.

"The tea: it's broken or I've spilled it. Please, help me move the bed."

The She-Bear showed her enviable strength by lifting a corner of the bed and moving it away from Sansa. Underneath lay the green jar on its side, clearly having rolled and finally stopped against a wide gap in the patched-up floorboards: a hasty repair meant to make Winterfell habitable after the fire that was set to destroy it. Both Sansa and Rickon had refused to sleep in their parents' chamber, the only chamber set completely to right by the Boltons for the bastard Ramsey so that he could wed the girl they claimed was Arya. Despite the many privations at Winterfell, Sansa had ordered all of the remaining Bolton furnishings and possessions burned for cooking and smithing. She would allow them to be burned even in Winterfell's great hearths.

Sansa had asked instead that her former childhood chamber be restored as best as possible to habitable condition; until then she had bedded down in the Great Hall on her bedroll with all the others. The repairs had been quick and rudimentary, the furnishings sparse and, despite the best efforts of the women, including herself, a great deal of blacked soot lingered in corners, on the wooden ceilings and between the broken floorboards. Even if Sansa could retrieve the lost tea leaves, they would be heavily laced with black soot and ash. More than half of the remaining leaves from the jar of moon tea were lost.

Maege Mormont looked apprehensive. "Was it all you had, my lady?"

Sansa shook her head. "No. I have some small leather pouches that we purchased after- after we passed through the Neck. But Sandor- Commander Clegane was not convinced of their effectiveness; he felt the women would have sold us anything for coin."

"Best get them out, child; there is not much here that we can salvage. Pick up that jar and whatever leaves you can scrape up: we'll sort out the bigger ones from the ash. Then I'll set your bed right again."

Sansa swept up what she could, and set the leaves and jar on her small table. As Maege Mormont pushed and straightened her bedstead, she once again lifted the loose corner floorboards where she hid her satchel and rifled through it for her remaining tea.

"Here, give them to me," the She-Bear held out her hand. She opened one pouch and sniffed.

"Tansy," she told Sansa, "though not as strong from the scent of it." She opened another and did the same again. "A bit better, this one. Empty them both into the jar, child, and shake it up with what's left in there: it will do the trick," she reassured Sansa.

After she had done as she was told, Lady Mormont set the tea to steep and sat with her as she drank it. Sansa clutched the stone cup tightly in her hands. Though she knew she had done the right thing, Sansa still felt dejected.

"I thank you, Lady Mormont, for your counsel and your discretion," she began.

"I'll keep your secret, child: don't fret about that," she replied, understanding Sansa's meaning. "And you needn't be formal with me, not in private. Don't think for a moment I don't respect you as much I did your father and brother, but we'll be living and fighting alongside each other for some time to come, and you've no women of your own family here with you." She put her hand on Sansa's arm now. "I would not dream of trying to mother you, child, but if you should need comfort-"

Sansa's lips quivered and she quickly nodded her head. The She-Bear held her stocky, strong arms out to her as Sansa bent to rest her head and sob softly into her mailed bosom.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the awkwardness of the embrace, Sansa found the worn mail and the scent of damp wool and leather straps and sword belt reassuring because they reminded her of Sandor; but the strong arms that held her where not his and she gave a heartfelt last sob. Gathering herself, she resolutely pulled away.

"Forgive me, Lady Mormont," she dabbed at her eyes as she spoke, "I am overwrought it seems. I am grateful for your kindness." Sansa gave her a weak but genuine smile.

"You miss him of course," Maege Mormont remarked lightly, glancing over at Sansa's bed. "No doubt such a strong presence as his chases the nightmares away for you, and bad memories of having to share a bed with others."

Sansa stiffened instinctively. Her pride would not permit her to keep silent.

"I-I have never been with another man, my lady: Lord Tyrion and I did not have a true marriage, and Littlefinger wished me to marry another, for an alliance…though I know now that he had other plans for me as well," she trailed off darkly.

"Is he dead?" The She-Bear asked bluntly, and Sansa merely nodded, though without looking at her.

"Good," Lady Mormont replied simply. "No doubt he deserved it. But tell me child, how long do you plan to carry on as you are with Clegane? Surely even if you had not upset the jar, you would not have enough tea to see you through winter. I cannot be sure we will be able to find you more: little grows under our snows, as you well know, and no trading comes to Winterfell now. It would be a great risk to send a rider to the Neck, or Deepwood Motte or- "

Sansa looked wistfully towards the empty cup again. "I think I wish I had spilled it all, Lady Mormont. What…what if he should not return from this sortie; you heard him tell how dangerous it may be…and I have forever lost my chance to have some part of him with me always? I fear that I shall regret it all of my days."

Maege Mormont stared levelly at her. "You wish for a life with him," she concluded shrewdly, "but you cannot make a man marry you, nor love you, nor even want you: men do as they please and always have. My late lord," she recounted dryly, "wanted sons, and so he tried to get them off other women when I gave him only daughters. Died on top of one of them," she almost laughed, though bitterly, "served him right. Well, it wasn't long after that my nephew Jorah disgraced himself the final time for that fancy southron wife of his. And so I became Lady of Bear Island, and we took back the Mormont name." She nodded in satisfaction. "Best he's forgotten now, though my Dacey favoured him with her height and dark hair," she seemed almost wistful herself for a moment. "A good-looking man, and strapping too, but piss-poor and could never hope to do better than his lord's sister," she shrugged. "But the Starks are line eight thousand years in the North, and the Cleganes are Westermen and upstarts…though Jeyne Westerling was herself from low stock on her mother's side despite her father's name. Even if he did want to marry you, do you think he would be accepted as your lord husband; any more than the Imp?"

Though Sansa felt stung by this blunt appraisal of both her brother Robb's wife and Sandor, she answered truthfully.

"I should be as proud as I would be happy to marry Commander Clegane, Lady Mormont; but, regretfully, he shares your view, and doubtless that of others, that he is not trusted here, nor is he worthy of a Stark…" she trailed off, reluctant to speak further.

"And? What else do you hold back, child? Is there truth to the stories of Saltpans? Is he wanted for worse than desertion?"

Sansa almost laughed. "_I_ am wanted for regicide, Lady Mormont: what in this world could be worse than that? But there is no truth to any of the stories, though he did desert the Kingsguard and…King Joffrey," Sansa finds it is still difficult to speak the name of the boy who treated her so cruelly, and who had her father killed before her eyes. She turned back to Maege Mormont.

"Commander Clegane feels that- that the fighting may grow worse and that I may needs make…an alliance…through marriage for our victory, possibly even for our survival." Sansa swallowed hard before continuing. "He fears that if the Targaryen girl, the one with dragons, should conquer the Seven Kingdoms…that I may needs return to- to my- to Lord Tyrion as an assurance of the Stark loyalty. It is said that he is one of her closest advisors," she finished shakily.

"Her hand, some say," Maege Mormont remarked easily as she stood to take the pot back to the mantle over the hearth. "He's a shrewd man, Commander Clegane: you're a pretty prize for some man, my lady, and worth fighting for. And you won't be the first nor the last woman who needed to give up her personal happiness for the advantage of a political marriage, I am sorry to say, but it is what high-born women have always done. You're strong, you've proven that, and you can do what needs to be done," she encouraged Sansa.

Despite this encouragement, Sansa instead felt dishearteded that this woman who sympathized with her should feel that Sandor had the right of her fate.

"Well then," the She-Bear began again, "if he thinks you're too good for the likes of him, mayhaps he'll do for my Alysane. She'll need legitimate heirs for Bear Island unless she wants the land and title to pass to her sisters, and he seems well-suited for the North. Their firstborn will needs take the Mormont name however and I can't see a fierce man like him taking that with any grace," she jested before continuing with her plans with her back turned to Sansa as she stoked the small fire.

Sansa sat eerily still in her chair, stunned by the She Bear's callousness and by the violence of her own feelings. She could feel her rage mounting within her and her lips nearly curling into a snarl as she balled her fists in the folds of her skirt.

_Mine!_

Her mind seemed to swirl and grow hot as she saw red before her, and she wished the She-Bear up on the walls of Winterfell where she belonged…so that she could push her off into the deep, enveloping snow that reached more than halfway up the outer wall, so that she would never be heard from again and her intentions could never be realized. Just the image of her terrible thoughts shocked her out of her vengeful reverie.

She cleared her throat. "Commander Clegane has promised that he would stay as a guardian to Rickon if I should needs leave Winterfell, Lady Mormont. My lord brother has grown very attached to him and admires him above all men, even our great-uncle who is family to him."

_He thinks of Sandor as a brother: do not think to take him so easily from Rickon as you would take him from me._

"Of course," Sansa added as she cast her eyes downward, "men will do as they would do, as you well know, my lady."

Maege Mormont seemed to consider her words. "It is his loyalty to young Rickon as well as yourself, my lady, that has earned him the trust of the Northern lords: I could not ask him to betray that, not while the fighting continues and gods know we need him here for that as well," she remarked grimly.

She seemed to notice Sansa's fierce countenance now. "Oh, we'll win, my lady, don't you fear about that. We'll kill them all…for your lord father, your lady mother, King Robb and my Dacey. For the North, my lady," she nodded resolutely though her voice was quiet, and Sansa felt a stirring of kinship with the She-Bear again.

"For the North," she replied.

"And for the North, I had best return to the walls. I bid you good night now, my lady." Maege Mormont strode to the door and walked out, confident and determined with her mail and swordbelt as any soldier or lord.

Sansa rose and walked to retrieve the stone jar of tea from the mantle and hide it once again beneath the floorboards.

….

Sansa tossed and turned restlessly all night. She would throw her covers off in frustration only to burrow back underneath the furs as soon as she felt the cold air of her chamber through her wool nightdress. She had sworn to Sandor that she would do what was necessary of her to secure an alliance or peace for Winterfell, and now she was tormented by the terrible thought of having to give herself to another man and share his bed. She shuddered to remember Joffrey's wormy lips and his furtive attempts to grope and humiliate her. She pushed aside memories of Tyrion's eyes looking her over hungrily, of his stunted hands and his twisted body and how she had even thought his manhood was ugly with its bulging veins and purple head.

_He is even uglier than the Hound_,she had told herself when she had kissed him at the altar in the Great Sept of Baelor; and she knew not whether to laugh or cry at the memory for there was no man more desirable in her eyes now than Sandor Clegane. She thought yearningly of him, of how much she loved his strong body and his strong, angular face, even with its burn scars. She loved how fiercely and how tenderly he could look at her: his eyes had lost their once-frightful rage and she could gaze into them, grey as storm clouds, and see how much he cared for her and how much he wanted her.

She rolled onto her other side and reached her hand out to trace her fingers on the bolster where he lay his head when he came to her bed. She bit her lip, and though now of his lips, of his mouth on hers and on her body when he kissed her in places that made her writhe and melt and to gasp for breath until she pulled him to her and begged him not to stop. She loved his hands, large and strong and callused, and how gently he would brush the curve of her cheek or run them through her hair, how he would touch her intimately and caress her body and even grab and squeeze her when he reached his peak or simply forgot his own strength in the midst of their sometimes overwhelming passion.

Sansa flopped over on her tummy, almost hiding from embarrassment at her lustful thoughts; but that did not still her mind as it made her think now of how he coupled with her from behind, grasping her hips and raising her bottom so he could take her like a dog. _This is what dogs do to wolves_ he teased her, rasping in her ear as he bent over her to hold onto her shoulders. Sansa had felt uncertain the first time, and certainly unladylike with her behind in the air, but his deep thrusting had felt so good, so maddeningly good that she has whined and clawed at the headboard before she had arched her back to push against him and bent her head down, stifling her cries in the bolster. She pounded the very same bolster now in helpless vexation. How could she ever let another man touch her and do these same things to her? How could she betray her own heart and body so completely? She would always think of Sandor and always want him. She would always be his.

Sansa once again threw back her covers and left her bed to huddle before her hearth fire. She spotted the cup from which she had taken her moon tea, and she knocked it from the mantle but it did not break; it probably had not even chipped, she reflected petulantly. She knew she was acting childishly but she could not seem to help herself. After so many years of hiding her feelings, Sansa wished to revel in them and to be free to show her love for Sandor; or, at least, not to hide it as though it were shameful, and not have to lose it because she needs carry the weight of Winterfell and the North's future on her shoulders…or between her legs. She knew it was an ugly thought, something Cersei would say and certainly unworthy of a lady; but she did not feel like a lady when she thought of selling herself in marriage. Others may call her a pawn; but she felt even less than a whore. But as horrible as she had thought her future misery could be, it was not until Maege Mormont had spoken that she had realized that she may not be the only one taking another to their bed.

Sansa could possibly have scoffed at the thought that Sandor could love Alysane Mormont, but she realized that if she left him and Winterfell to marry another, his position at Winterfell could be tenuous. Though some had learned to respect him, there were still many soldiers who considered him an interloper and an upstart. Without a home or the prospect of entering into service, Bear Island and the younger She-Bear would not be an unwelcome offer; even if Alysane was a stocky woman with big thighs and large, sagging breasts and callused hands who wore mail and had two bastard children. If she were to needs marry another for convenience, why not Sandor?

Sansa remembered how gently Sandor had treated her when they first became lovers, how he had thought her delicate and how easily he had lifter her in his arms. He often traced the contours of her narrow waist and covered her rounded, firm breasts with his hands. He would run his rough palms the length of her long limbs and kiss her slender hands and even her feet, remarking how soft her skin was. She ran her own hands over the contours of her body as she knelt before the fire and felt how thin she had become since returning to Winterfell and surviving on the same rations as all the others. She no longer filled in her gowns, most of which were of plain, rough wool and under which she wore woolen smallclothes and heavy knit stockings. Her hands were becoming cracked and dried from cold and from kitchen work and her feet were growing calluses from worn boots. She had one faded hair ribbon left to her name and her few jewels where kept hidden in her satchel under the floorboards with her remaining coin and the moon tea.

_Soon I shall be as plain and rough and stringy as the wildling women, and it will not matter to him if he beds them or me, or Alysane Mormont, who will inherit a title and lands while I will have nothing but my name. But I am as strong as them all: I am a Stark of Winterfell and I have survived thus far, and will continue to do so, and to be a lady even if I don't have him. __I will not cry nor beg nor shame him into leaving Winterfell. __I will be Sansa Stark and not his little bird anymore._

Sansa wiped her eyes, and climbed back into bed. She would stay strong, whatever happened; she would stay strong for Rickon and for the North.

"For the North," she whispered as she settled a final time that night beneath her furs.


	7. Chapter 7

Since her first flowering, Sansa's moon blood had come at every first quarter of the moon. Five days after she had drunk the mix of moon teas in her chamber with the help of Maege Mormont and two days after following with a second cup as instructed by the old woman in the Neck, Sansa's moon blood came as expected. Her immediate feeling was one of relief: she would not bear a bastard child and she had kept her promise to Sandor.

Later the same day, she stole a moment in the godswood to kneel before the carved face in the weirwood and mourn what may have been her last chance to have a child by Sandor. Sansa knew well to be wary of what she wished for; so she prayed instead for the strength to face what she must do for her family and for protection for her army and her brothers: Rickon in Winterfell and Bran and Jon beyond the Wall. And she prayed for Arya. After bowing her head before the heart tree, she turned and headed to the kitchens to help with the bread-making. In the larder, she saw that Sandor had been right and that their stores were indeed meager. Though other houses had shared what provisions they had for their soldiers, Sansa could see that it was not enough to last them the long winter without access to the sea and the rest of Westeros for trade. They would needs rid the North of the Boltons and Freys and have access to harbours and reopen the Kingsroad and the Neck. They would need peace with all of Westeros and not just in the North to achieve prosperity. Sansa sighed. She would need the strength for which she had prayed, and mayhaps even the alliance of which Sandor had warned her. She also wondered how they would pay for anything or what goods they could provide even if they could trade. She was kneading dough thoughtfully as she pondered their situation then she heard footsteps running into the kitchen.

"My Lady!"

Sansa turned and wiped her brow with the back of her hand which was dusted with coarsely-ground flour. A soldier of House Forrester, vassals of House Glover, stopped short and bowed his head to her.

"Riders, my lady," he informed her breathlessly, "coming from the Wolfswood. They are still too far to see their banners, but Lady Mormont asks that you be told, and to assure you that you will be well-protected should you chose to come to the outer wall."

"Kindly tell Lady Mormont that I shall join her as soon as I don my cloak and boots," she nodded for him to go ahead without her. "Forgive me," she told the other women working, "I must be present to greet our returning soldiers."

"Ye don't know yit iffen they's _ours_, girl," Squirrel called after her from near the ovens. "Fiery underneath that one: wildlin' blood, likes I tol's ye," she commented to the others.

Sansa left the kitchen and hurried through the kennel and across the Hunter's Gate to climb the outer wall looking out west towards the Wolfswood. She met Maege Mormont who looked concerned.

"I can well understand the use for Myrish eyes, my lady," the She-Bear told her as she looked out across the vast expanse of snow.

"Our Maester Luwin had Myrish eyes; he would study the stars," Sansa remembered now, "but they were likely lost when the Maester's Turret collapsed in the fire, if they were not stolen first. They say that Myrish glass is the very best. It may have brought a price somewhere…for someone."

"Let us pray it is not those same _someones_ approaching us now," Maege Mormont replied with foreboding.

Sansa leaned against the outer wall between the crenels over the gate. Soldiers gathered with bows and arrows at the ready. Peering hard, Sansa understood the She-Bear's unease. The only banners at the front of the host appeared to be red, possibly those of the Bolton's flayed man. She leaned further and felt someone take her elbow.

"Take care, my lady," a young soldier murmured respectfully.

"Umber!" Sansa cried. "They are the banners of House Umber, Lady Mormont. I see the giant on a red field. It is our forces returning. Make ready to open the gates," she turned with a flushed smile.

"Mayhaps it would be best we let them come nearer first, my lady, to be certain it is not a deception. Anyone can pick up a fallen banner on a field," the young man from House Forrester advised.

Sansa turned to him wided-eyed, and the young man bowed his head humbly.

"Beg your pardon-" he began.

"There is naught to pardon," Sansa told him earnestly. "You are right; I am too eager. I thank you for your counsel." To her surprise, the young man flushed with pleasure and pride.

Maege Mormont nodded brusquely. "Archers to your marks," she commanded.

Her order was shouted down the length of the wall and men hurried to stand between crenels. Sansa stepped back and moved closer to the She-Bear, her rancor towards her for her designs on Sandor for her daughter forgotten in their shared apprehension.

The host rode closer and both women watched intently until Maege Mormont laughed out loud. At the same moment, Sansa saw why: at the head of the host was the unmistakable figure of the Greatjon who had left with the rear guard and who now was leading them back with his house banners aloft.

"Stand down," the She-Bear called. "Prepare to open the gates now." She turned to Sansa. "Victory, my lady, most assuredly. A host that size is not defeated, I'll wager, nor retreating at that pace either. Let us greet them heartily," she all but slapped Sansa on the back.

But Sansa remained looking out over the edge of the wall. "I see my great-uncle," she ventured.

"You'll see them all I the yard, my lady," Maege Mormont spoke firmly, and Sansa understood the mild chiding and nodded. She knew her duty.

Riders filled the yard with raised voices and cheers and the whinnying of horses. Boys came out of the stables to take their reins and guards came to help the wounded dismount and be brought into the keep. Sansa approached Lord Umber first, trying hard not to cast her eyes about for Sandor.

"My lord," she smiled, "all of Winterfell is overjoyed at your safe return."

"We vanquished them, my lady; did I not tell you we would? They were caught between our staggered forces, just as your man Clegane predicted," he crowed. "Now, where's my victory kiss, then?"

Sansa laughed and reached up to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek again. She continued to greet and praise the lords and soldiers as she shivered against the growing cold. The Blackfish smiled down at her and asked if she would not rather greet men as they entered the Great Hall: they would all be seeking the warmth of the hearth and ale and bread for their bellies. She thanked him for his concern but replied that she would wait until the gates were closed and every man returned.

"There will be some men grievously wounded, Sansa," he warned her.

_I saw my father's head cut off and put on a spike,_ she almost countered him but refrained. He meant to protect her, and she was grateful. "Then I must stay," she told him gently, and he patted her shoulder admiringly. "Please ensure that the maester is summoned, great-uncle, and Rickon who is with him at his lessons. He should be here as well."

As the Blackfish walked away, Sansa finally glimpsed Stranger being led through the gate by a one-eyed man in mail and mis-matched bits or armour. Both the man and a guard then helped Sandor, who had been bent over his courser's neck, to dismount slowly and carefully. When his feet touched the ground, he drew himself up with a groan.

"Help me inside," he rasped impatiently.

"Yes, Commander," the guard replied, taking Sandor's arm and draping it across his shoulder to keep him upright.

Sansa rushed up to him and stopped short, remembering her position and his.

"Commander Clegane," she spoke tightly, "are you wounded?"

"Aye," he grunted, "my lady. It's not deep; only it opened my old wound."

"Sansa now saw what looked to be a tattered banner wound tightly around his thigh and darkened with blood.

"I have asked my great-uncle to summon the maester. I will have him attend you at once," she insisted.

"There's many worse than me," he rasped. "Boiled wine and bandages for the leg and some dark wine for my belly will see me to rights," he tried to jeer. "Let the maester see to those in the sledges first."

Sansa reluctantly nodded and let Sandor pass though she wished to stay with him and to tend him herself. Despite her concern for him, she knew she must speak with as many of the wounded as possible, to thank them and praise them so they would know their sacrifice, even if it should be their life, was appreciated by their lady of Winterfell. Horses and footmen pulled stretchers behind them, with bloodied and bandaged men. Some were missing limbs, others had bloody faces and soaked furs covering holes in their bodies. All were shivering and some were blue from cold. Sansa kneeled by them and squeezed their hands when she could, or wiped their brow. She whispered encouragement and smiled determinedly at them, even those with gruesome disfigurements and those near-death, telling them they were all her heroes, her valiant warriors for the North and welcoming them back to Winterfell.

"The maester will see to you," she told each one, though her heart was breaking and the tears she had stopped in her throat threatened to choke her, "and you will be well again. The North needs you, as do I."

Finally the guards shut the gates and she stood there for a moment, remembering that she stood in the same place after they had rode out to battle, dreading that any should be killed or wounded in her service.

_If I could ride out and fight with them, like my father or Robb or even Sandor, I would not feel so terrible for sending them out there. It is not for me that we do this, or even for Rickon or any Stark; it is for the North. I do my duty for the North._

Knowing that the wounded men now needed her as much as she had needed them, Sansa turned to enter the Great Hall and assist the maester with his healing…or his mercy.

They had no milk of the poppy.

She kept the sharply-honed dagger Sandor had given her strapped inside her boot.


	8. Chapter 8

"We have done all we can for them, my lady," the maester told her solemly. "They are now in the hands of the gods."

The older man offered her his arm as they left the ground floor of the Guest house facing Winterfell's courtyard. The wounded men had been laid out on pallets and bedrolls and young boys were watching the fires while older women sat with the soldiers to give them water or to call the maester if he were needed again. The dead had been taken outside the walls to what remained of the winter town to prepare for burial where the ground permitted.

Sansa tried not to lean too heavily on the maester though she was exhausted almost to dumbness and could offer no words to him but only a grateful nod.

"Let me call someone to see you to your chamber, my lady. I believe Lady Mormont is in the Great Hall with Lord Umber.

But Sansa only shook her head until she remembered Sandor. "My sworn shield, maester: Sandor Clegane. I never saw him treated amongst the wounded-" she began.

"I will see to him now, my lady; I was told he remained in the hall to discuss matters of strategy with your great-uncle and the other lords present. A soldier bid me come to him when we were done with the others," he winced as he stretched his back now.

"I will accompany you," Sansa spoke quietly but firmly and the man led them across the yard.

In the Great Hall, Sansa immediately saw Sandor sitting at a table by the hearth, surrounded by men. When he saw her, he looked her over with an unabashed appreciation that shocked her. Sandor had never been careless about his feelings for her or compromised his reserve in front of others, and she was relieved to see that most were listening to the Greatjon recounting battle stories. As she moved closer, she noted that his face was flushed and his eyes wide and that there was a slick sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip.

"Commander Clegane, I have brought the maester to examine your injury. Have you tended the wound with boiled wine?" She was unnerved by the smirk on his face.

"I have tended myself with wine, my lady," he lifted his goblet, "and it has sufficed."

But as he set the goblet down, he knocked it over and the one-eyed man who had led Stranger through the gates reached to set it upright again and wiped the spill with his sleeve.

"P'rhaps if I off that bandage fer ye, Commander," the man offered respectfully even as he kneeled to do so without waiting for Sandor's permission. Sansa realized that she had seen the man before.

"Forgive me, but you are from the winter town, is that not right?"

The man nodded and answered her: "I am, m'lady: I'ze a cooper an' offen times brung barrels to Winterfell. I grieve fer yer lord father an' lady mother, m'lady, and the King in the North; but I was right happy t'hear ye and th'young lord'd be back. It weren't safe for folk wit' 'em Krakens an' Boltons: it's Starks we needs in th'North, m'lady, an' I'll fights fer ye-"

"Damned good fighter he is at that," Sandor grabbed the man by the shoulder and squeezed hard, "killed many a man out there, including the one that came at _me_." He pounded the man's shoulder now but the cooper barely flinched.

"I am grateful for your service to House Stark, and to my sworn shield," Sansa told the man sincerely.

The maester had kneeled to examine Sandor's leg while he was distracted and wrinkled up his nose.

"It is not so deep but should be cleaned and bound else it may not heal properly. Gods but much flesh was cut away here," he remarked almost to himself. "You seem feverish as well, Commander: I would advise bed rest and cool cloths. If someone would help me take him to his chamber..."

The Blackfish and the one-eyed cooper stood to bring Sandor to his feet and help him from the hall and out into the yard to cross to the keep. Sansa followed with trepidation, listening to his heavy, rattled breathing and occasional fits of chuckling as he muttered things she could not hear to the men holding him steady. When they lay him down on his bed he again looked at Sansa with heavy-lidded eyes and a hungry smile and so she excused herself to fetch cool water and what clean linens could be found. Since their talk in the Godswood, she feared that any indiscretion or sign of affection on her part would anger him or make him leave; she had not thought to fear such signs from him but she realized that he was wounded and feverish and even somewhat drunk and so he was not in full control of himself.

When she returned, they had stripped away his jerkin and boots and breeches and left him only in his shirt and tunic which fell past his hips to preserve his modesty and Sansa's. The Blackfish propped him up as the maester poured boiled wine on his thigh. Sandor grimaced and gnashed his teeth but never once cried out and Sansa admired his strength and felt a glow of pride that she loved such a man. He smiled his twitching half-smile at her as she stood with her basin and towel to tend him.

"This Stark girl will not leave me to die," he rasped jeeringly, referring to Arya at the Trident.

"You have watched over me these many moons, Commander; I will see that mine own sword shield is properly tended," she assured him levelly.

"Always a proper lady…" he chuckled.

The maester took offense at his jibe. "Our own Lady Sansa helped to nurse many soldiers in the Guest house, Commander: she is as kind and gentle as she is dutiful and hardworking. You are fortunate that she takes an interest in your care," he reproached Sandor as he tied on a fresh bandage.

"Thank you, maester," Sansa told him. "But I believe it is the fever and recent battles that are loosening his tongue," she lowered her voice to say. "I will bathe him with cool water so that you may return to the soldiers or to your own chamber to sleep. Surely you must be exhausted by your ministrations, and you are like to be needed again before the night is over."

The old man drew himself up with dignity as he looked down upon Sandor. "We will leave the door open, my lady; you have only to call if you should require…assistance." With those words he left with the cooper and the Blackfish.

Sansa sat on the side of the bed and sunk the cloth she held in the basin of water.

"Imagine if the old fart knew you've had my cock in your mouth, _my lady_," he rasped hoarsely.

"He is an old man, Sandor; mayhaps he would not be so very shocked as you would think," she suggested mildly.

"You're the maiden made flesh to them, girl. If they knew I had ruined you, they would slit my throat and call it a victory: _for the North_! Seven hells, even the bloody cooper is like to think you're too good for me."

Sansa shook her head stubbornly even as she bathed his forehead and neck. "It is men like him, and yourself, and all the other soldiers that will save the North, not me. I only wish I could ride out with you-"

He grabbed her wrist and grinned a lustful sneer. "You can ride me now, girl: even that cold water can't keep my cock from getting hard at the sight or the touch of you." He tried to push her hand under his furs but she pulled herself away.

"_Hush_," she hissed at him. "The door is ajar; and you are always admonishing me not to speak of…such things. You are wounded; and I- I have my moon's blood," she stammered to say.

He let go of her now and rested his head back against his bolster. His eyes widened again and then he seemed to calm. "You took the tea then," he rasped in a quieter voice, and she nodded once.

"Good girl," he breathed and she resumed stroking the cool cloth on his temples. He watched her work and she saw from his heavy eyelids that he was growing sleepy. After a long and awkward silence he spoke again, sounding slurred.

"I only want what's best for you, little bird; you know that, don't you? Only the best. That can't be me, little bird…jus' not poss'ble…" He closed his eyes.

Sansa's chin quivered at his words and she stopped bathing him, instead leaning closer so as not to be heard.

"Don't you love me anymore, Sandor?" she whispered pleadingly, abandoning the vow she had made to herself. "Please, my love, don't let another man take me for his own; I am yours and will do anything to be with you."

As she waited for his answer, she realized that he slept. Sansa sighed in resignation. Mayhaps it was for the best that her outpouring did not reach his ears for surely his own words were a result of his fever. She dunked the cloth in the basin once more and wrung it out before laying it across his forehead and stroking his now matted dark hair away from his face.

"I sat with a boy who died," she confided though she knew he did not hear her. "I held his hand and sang to him; not the Mother's hymn, of course: he would not follow the new gods here. I- I gave other men the gift of mercy when they asked for it. _Help me, my lady,_ they begged, and so I did," she recounted with tears streaming down her cheeks. "It was not easy to do but it was the right thing, was it not? It was all I could do for them; there was naught else to be done and they would only have suffered longer, and died anyway and for me, Sandor, for my house and my family. And so I _must_ do what I can for them as you say," she swallowed as her voice squeaked and trembled. "It will be like a dagger to my own heart, my love, but it will be the right thing, will it not? Promise me that it will be…" She took one of his hands in hers and rubbed the back of it against her wet cheek. "If only- if only you would love me until then, Sandor. I am braver with you by my side: so long as I have you…."

Sansa dropped her forehead against the hand she held now and cried.

"Sansa?"

She jumped at the sound of her name, and turned to see her great-uncle, Blackfish Tully, standing in the doorway. She wiped her tears from her face with the back of her hand as he walked slowly towards her.

"Are you alright, Sansa?" he asked in his smokey voice as he reached out to put his hands on her shoulders.

"Forgive me, great-uncle Brynden," she sniffled. "I am very tired and…I watched men die-"

He swept her into a comforting embrace. "There is nothing to forgive, Sansa. You are kind-hearted and gentle and you have a great deal of responsibility, as much as your father once carried and your brother Robb," he looked at her concernedly. "You need sleep now; let me see you to your chamber." Without another word, he leaned to pick her up and carry her in his arms but when she made to protest, he hushed her. "There's no one about to see; the guard on this hall needed the privy and so I said I would stand for him until he returned. From the pained look on his face, I wager he will be some time," he remarked.

Sansa giggled; she could not help it. The Blackfished smiled indulgently.

"Now I know you are exhausted, if you find _that_ amusing," he told her. "Here we are."

He nudged her door open with his foot and they saw Rickon and Osha asleep across her bed, Osha sat up immediately as she heard the door and reached for her spear until she recognized them in the dimness. Shaggydog raised his dark head, alert.

"Sorry, m'lady, but the young lord wanted to know about Commander Clegane. 'E wouldn't go t'beds until he knew e'd be alright," she explained.

"Do not wake him then," Sansa whispered as the Blackfish set her down near the bed. "Help me remove his boots and get him under the furs. We three can all sleep here tonight," she insisted, "I do not think I wish to be alone after today."

"Aye, m'lady," Osha agreed easily, "We'll stay with ye, then."

Sansa gave another weak smile in gratitude and Shaggydog lowered his great head onto his paws again and closed his bright green eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

Sandor spent the next several days in bed resting and was visited by the Blackfish and the Greatjon, by Sansa and the maester and mostly by Rickon who wanted to talk about the battle and sword fighting and his training. By the fourth day he had enough and so when Sansa went to bring him fresh water and linens, she found him standing by his bed and trying to put on his breeches.

"What are you doing?" she asked him in surprise.

"What does it bloody look like I'm doing?" he rasped impatiently. "Put down that basin and help me dress, girl."

Sansa was dumbfounded by his tone. "I most certainly will not help you dress! The maester had not yet declared you fit to leave your bed and furthermore do not presume to order me about, Sandor Clegane: I am the Lady of Winterfell and I am telling you that you needs return to your bed until such time as the maester deems that you are healed."

"I have a war to fight," he told her bluntly.

"I have a keep to run, an army to feed, commons to protect and the whole North to administer if only I were recognized as the rightful warden," she began.

"That's why we're at war, girl," he snarled as he tried to hop into his breeches. Sansa set down the basin and turned to close and bar the door against his leaving. He threw his breeches down in exasperation and turned to her angrily. He suddenly looked her over.

"Lady of Winterfell, are you? You look more like a wench. A comely wench, to be sure," his mouth twitched into a leer, "but who would have thought to see pretty, high-born Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell dressed in servants' garb."

Sansa smarted at the jape. She had been tending wounded men for days and wore her hair wrapped up in a worn linen towel and had donned a patched wool dress with front lacings so as to dress quickly and easily without assistance. All women were needed for nursing or kitchen work or cleaning and laundry, and Sansa did not consider herself an exception particularly where the soldiers were concerned. Everyone in the keep had praised her and she felt proud of herself and her hard work. The girl she had once been, the girl who dreamed of knights and tourneys and of being queen, would have been mortified to wear such drab, worn clothes. But she remembered the summer silks once gifted to her by Queen Cersei in Kings Landing, and the rich gowns of brocade and velvet, the heavy gold chains, jewels and elaborate hairstyles that she had worn as Lady Lannister…and how much she hated them. She was content now to wear the rough wool and the simple braids that made her a Northerner and made her equal to her struggling people; mayhaps she could not fight with them but she could work, and work hard for them and with them. She wanted to be more like them: simpler, stronger, and willing to suffer hardship without complaining. All the beautiful riches in the world could not compare to being home and being with her family, to being _herself_ instead of an unloved wife, a false bastard or a lying, chirping piece of property for some man to dress and adorn and use as his own. She narrowed her eyes in anger and in hurt. Could he not see how much she had changed?

"Mayhaps I will dress as your notion of lady once more when I am again _wed_," she bit off the word harshly. "I wore very fine clothes in the Red Keep when I was Lady Lannister and by your wishes I may have to do so again. You had better hope that I please my lord so well that I can plead mercy for you to keep your head, Sandor Clegane; though at my best I could not even succeed to save my own _father_."

She turned away suddenly, afraid that she might cry again. She bit her lip but squared her shoulders and took a deep breath before turning back to him. He was standing with his head bowed, looking as miserable as she felt.

"Please return to your bed now," she insisted gently. She walked to him and reached to put her hand on his shoulder to coax him down. He grabbed it and held it tightly, making her gasp in surprise, and he held it cupped against his burned cheek, as she had done to him so often.

"I'd rather lose my bloody head than live to see you with that dwarf. I hope I die fighting for you so that I never have to see what becomes of you…out there," he gestured weakly.

_Then why? _But she did not ask: she knew why he felt they could not stay together, and she understood though she hated it as much as he did.

"I have promised," she whispered reluctantly. "I will do what I must, Sandor." She cleared her throat. "However, if you truly wish to die fighting, you will have to get well first. I'm sure there will be many more battles ahead before this is all settled for good or for ill."

Sandor sat back down on his bed and set his jaw firmly before looking up at her again.

"Aye, there will be. There needs to be." He was looking at her forebodingly. "You're not safe, little bird."

_Little bird._ Her heart jumped at his endearment, though he did not seem to be in an affectionate state of mind.

"I know," she replied quietly. "There are many who want me dead, and Rickon: all of the Starks."

"Sit down," he told her. "Please," he amended when he saw her hesitate. She sat down gingerly on the edge on the bed, more than an arm's length away. If he noticed the distance, he chose not to say anything.

He took a deep breath and began: "One of the men in the Bolton forces had been an Umber man; you know the Whoresbane joined with them to keep the Greatjon alive when he was imprisoned by the Freys," he reminded her.

Sansa nodded. "You promised to tell me how he escaped someday-"

"Not today," he cut her off. "This man called for the Greatjon before dying, he wanted to warn us. He said the Boltons sent them as scouts and to draw us out to determine our strength and our defenses. We knew that well enough by then: though they were many they were not so many as we had thought. It's not the castle they want, not yet anyway: they think that winter will freeze and starve us out." He paused before continuing and Sansa could see his face cloud with anger. "It's you they want," he rasped grimly.

"Of course they want to kill me," she said levelly, "they want to rule the North for themselves as the Lannisters promised-"

"They want to capture you, not kill you; at least not do it themselves. The bastard wants you," he growled. "Wants to…wants to hunt you naked through the snow with his dogs, then rape you and flay you alive and leave you there to die and be eaten by wolves: 'your own kind' he says. He wants your skin, your face and especially your hair…so he can to fly you as his banner when he rides back to take Winterfell."

Sansa was sickened. She had heard tales of the Bolton bastard's cruelty, and rumours that they still practiced flaying despite the Starks having outlawed it. Everyone at Winterfell feared for those taken prisoner when the castle was sacked and burned, believing them to be in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. Sansa wondered how many still lived, if they were even fed or had been starved to death like Lady Hornwood, and if any had been hunted and flayed for the bastard's sport.

"I won't let them hurt you," Sandor rasped low. Sansa turned her eyes to him and she saw his hand twitch and almost reach to touch her but he stopped himself. He grasped the edge of the bed with both hands instead. "We'll needs march on the Dreadfort," he said with finality.

Her mind suddenly cleared at his words. "But Sandor, the Dreadfort is three days ride at least. How can our army march and lay siege in winter? Have we the men and provisions?" She stopped when she saw Sandor's mouth twitch into a half-smile.

"Listen to yourself now, little bird: armies, marches, provisions. You truly are the Lady of Winterfell, aren't you?" He rubbed his jaw and closed his eyes a moment.

"I am. And you are tired, Sandor, please lie down now. There will be time enough for war once you have mended."

He lay down without argument and let her tuck his furs around him and place the cloth across his forehead again.

"Your fever seems broken now. I will have them send you a heartier meal than just broth from bones. There is meat and onions and neeps." Soldiers had brought meat from dead horses back to Winterfell after the battle.

"The Blackfish and the Greatjon and I have been discussing our plans and our needs," he continued telling her now. "It may be some moons before we are at strength. In the meantime we needs watch for any intruders, which means no more taking in waifs and strays unless someone knows them," he ordered.

"But Sandor some of them have been mere children-"

"Was the bastard not a child once, and Joffrey? Seven hells, even Gregor was a child once, little bird," he reminded her. "I will not see you harmed in any way."

"You will not have stray children in the castle but you will send me off to be married. How are we to know that any offers would not be traps meant to capture me? If we must march on the Dreadfort then there is no time for alliances: those Northerners who support us will fight for us and those who do not will not change their minds and defy the Boltons and Lannisters in King's Landing. We must count on those houses and soldiers that we have, Sandor, and hope that it will be enough." She swallowed before speaking determinedly. "It is _I_ who has become expendable now: we cannot keep back so many men to guard me as we have."

Sandor stared at her levelly before speaking again. "I promised no harm would come to you and I meant it, little bird. I will see you protected at any cost. I only wish to gods you had your direwolf with you," he muttered angrily.

"As do I," she intoned sadly, and then hesitated. "I thought you were my protector now," she ventured.

He responded seriously: "I am, as your sworn shield; though I think I am of more use fighting for you. I will stay by your side if that is what you want," he rasped. "It is what I have sworn to do, on my life."

Sansa hesitated and then put her hand on his chest, over his heart. "You also swore never to lie to me," she reminded him.

His heavy brow furrowed in confusion. "And I haven't little bird; even if it hurts us both I have always told you the truth."

"Do you still love me?"

Sansa saw him hesitate even though his eyes looked into hers yearningly.

"Until my last breath, little bird," he rasped finally, "but-"

"No," she smiled gently, "there are no 'buts', Sandor: that is all I asked."

She withdrew her hand and rose from the bed. Slowly, she untied the laces of her dress and loosened the neck.

Sandor shook his head slowly. "Don't," he warned her without conviction.

"You love me," she whispered as she pulled off the wrapped towel that covered her hair. It fell about her shoulders in a cascade of gleaming auburn tresses, reflecting the faint sunlight slanting through the narrow window of his small chamber. She reached under her dress now to untie her smallclothes and let them drop to the floor.

"Seven buggering hells," Sandor sputtered, trying to sit up. But Sansa was already on top of him, straddling him and pulling down the furs that covered him. She leaned forward and once again cupped his face in her hands.

"No," she sighed, "there is no hell: there is just us, Sandor."

Sansa moved to kiss him but he moved his head away though he never stopped looking into her eyes, unless it was to stare at her lips. Every time she brought her lips to his he inched away, and then nudged at her cheek with his nose, or brushed his lips over her lashes or sniffed her neck. She began to nudge back, breathing into his ear, nipping at his neck until she finally succeeded in kissing his lips. She lingered over his mouth until he put his hand in her hair at the back of her neck to pull her to him and kiss her hungrily. She opened her mouth to his and let him taste her with his tongue. She moaned lightly and began pulling again at the furs, drawing them away from his body and pushing at his tunic until she could grasp what she sought. She took his member and stroked it as she kept kissing him and felt him grow hard in her hands.

"Gods, we shouldn't," he groaned as he let his head fall between her breasts.

"Shh," she hushed him with a whisper, "there's more tea." Before he could protest again, she rubbed the head of his manhood against her opening and gasped to feel how hard he was and how warm and wet with need she was for him. He growled deep in his throat and his hands reached under her dress to squeeze her bottom and draw her body closer to him.

"Lie back," she breathed as she spread out both hands on his chest and raised herself higher over his body. She sank onto him with a rush of expelled breath, quivering as she stretched and then tightened around him and felt his strength and hardness to her very core. When she whimpered Sandor reached to cup her chin in his hand and brush his finger over her lips. She opened her mouth and he slid his finger in so that she could suck on it gently to muffle her cries.

She rode him slowly and easily, raising and lowering herself on his long shaft until she was nearly dizzy with lust and her heart beat so that she felt the blood surge through her, making her flush and warm. She saw Sandor stretch his neck taut and bend his head back and his scarred mouth formed into a grimace as he panted heavily. Seeing him approach his peak inflamed her so that she settled on him and bucked her hips hard against his body and bent over him to cover his mouth with hers and take his groan of release deep into her lungs with her own breath. Then she buried her face in his neck and panted and keened as her own body felt it would surely burst from joy, as a flower opens in spring.

"You love me," she repeated as her body quieted and she lay over him, spent. "I love you too, Sandor."

He put his arms around her and pressed her close. "You'll be the death of me, little bird," he rasped into her hair which covered both their faces. Sansa gave a short mirthless laugh.

"It may be that we both die. It may be that we both needs marry others. It may even be that one of us sits the Iron throne," she panted another short laugh, "though I suspect neither of us desires that end very much either. Until then I want you in my bed, Sandor. I want you for myself."

She sat up now to look down upon his face with Tully-blue eyes drowsy with love. "I have always tried to do what is right, Sandor. I have tried to protect myself, mostly by lying and pretending and doing what has been expected of me. It has cost me nearly everything." She shook her head now. "I want no more of that now, please. I will drink my moon tea and keep our secret, only please do not deny me this happiness; nor deny yourself. We have lost too much without having to throw away what is good."

His mouth twisted grimly. "The longer we do this, little bird, the worse it will be when we needs…" he shook his head again, convinced still in his mind that they were destined to be parted, that her fate lay elsewhere than with him.

Sansa felt a sudden trepidation. "You- you won't leave me…because of this?" She had not cried or begged, as she had sworn to herself; but she had not intended to seduce him either. "Sandor?"

He gently ran his fingers through her soft fall of hair and sighed finally. "It _will_ stay our secret: that is my unyielding condition, girl. I will not have you compromised as a potential bride or ally." He locked eyes with her and she held his gaze.

"Agreed…Commander." She bit her lip but could not help smiling anyway.

"Good," he growled, "my lady. Now kiss me and send for that food, so that I have the strength to take you again."


	10. Chapter 10

"Many of the commons from along the White Knife and those men and soldiers loyal to Lady Hornwood fled to White Harbor when Bolton's bastard took the castle and declared himself lord," the Blackfish sneered as he spoke of the reviled Ramsay Snow, legitimized by the Lannisters so that Roose Bolton may have an heir. "They sought the protection of House Manderly," he continued.

"'Defender of the Dispossessed'," Sansa recited, remembering that it was one of Lord Wyman Manderly's many titles.

"Indeed he is, Sansa," the Blackfish agreed, "but he also has seen that they were trained and armed and they are now prepared to march on Hornwood to secure it as a stronghold from which to attack the Dreadfort. It is reputedly only thinly garrisoned: the Boltons have been retreating further into their lands and taking any supplies, provisions and even commons with them, claiming they are protecting them when they are in truth simply taking hostages."

Sansa set her mouth grimly. "Damnable…" she paused, "what can he be exactly, great-uncle? Not a man surely."

Blackfish Tully looked at her regretfully. "I don't know, child; but neither he nor his father will surrender easily."

Sansa paused now to look out the window of the walkway overlooking the yard where she and her great-uncle had been heading from the keep to the armory. She smiled faintly to see Sandor leading the training and her army looking strong and ready for battle. She turned to look confidently at the Blackfish.

"Nor will we, Great-uncle," she pronounced with conviction.

He nodded curtly. "If Manderly's men take Hornwood and he keeps it supplied by boats along the White Knife, we will be able to withstand them easily, at least far more easily than if we were marching from Winterfell to the Dreadfort. What is it, child?" he asked when he saw her hesitate to speak next.

"I…I would go with you to Hornwood, great-uncle, but I promised Rickon that I would not leave him; and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell-"

"No one expects you to go to Hornwood, Sansa: it is far too dangerous," he reassured her in his smokey voice.

_I want to be with Sandor._ "Is it less dangerous to stay here without an army? I am told the bastard is quite…determined to have me captured," she shivered to think of his terrible intentions for her.

"Manderly's forces will mean we can leave a bigger guard with you and Rickon; and the wildlings who have found their way here will defend you for sheltering them. We needs not fear they would support the Boltons or Freys: even savages have a rudimentary kind of honor that looks down upon those who violate guest rights."

"Squirrel is fond of telling them the Starks have wildling blood, though I rather think they respect strength and bravery more than blood, Great-uncle," she told him wryly.

"You have that, Sansa: you simply have a different way of showing it. They respect you," he smiled, "and if they don't then make use that damnable sharp dagger Clegane gave you."

Sansa looked out into the yard again. "Thank you, Great-uncle Brynden: mayhaps I will heed your advice."

She smiled at him when he raised his heavy grey brows and he chuckled mildly, believing that she meant it in jest. But as she leaned further out over the ledge of the window, her hands dug into the wooden frame as she seethed with jealous anger. The object of her contained fury stood at the edge of the yard, watching the men train. No, not the men: just Sandor.

Sansa had never objected to the wildling women watching the training, though they should have been working. She knew how much they admired strength in a man and that this was how they chose their mates: they were free with themselves and so she disregarded that they took men to their beds as long as there were no fights or rivalries. Sansa was happy to let Sandor and the Blackfish deal with disciplining the soldiers and tradesmen in such matters.

Though Sandor came to her bed when he could, he had been far too busy with the training and planning the march to Hornwood and the Dreadfort to give her the time and love she craved. When he did not sneak into her chamber for over six days, she did not think it unseemly; though she could not always help looking at him searchingly if he should walk past her or stand at the hearth in her father's solar when the lords assembled to discuss plans and strategies. Finally one morning Osha came to her chamber to help her dress and to speak with her.

"It's about yer sworn shield, m'lady," the wildling woman began.

Sansa could not help looking around as Osha tied the laces of her gown. "Sandor Clegane?"

"Aye, m'lady: e's a lot on 'is mind, that one, wit' the war and all and bein' yer own man-like," she described him without insinuation though Sansa felt a sharp sense of caution at her words.

"Indeed, Osha: all the lords and commanders have much to concern themselves with-"

"Aye, m'lady," she continued patiently, "but not all thems got a nekkid wildlin' tryin' te gets in bed wit'em. Squirrel'd be a pushy one, she be; an' I figures 'e don't need no distractin' about now."

Sansa's heart and stomach clenched as she turned slowly to face Osha. The wildling woman still held the same bland look upon her face.

"Course it be nuthin' te me, m'lady, but e's yer shield an' all…an' we knows yer te be pr'tected strong 'gainst Bolton's bastard. Man canna be watchin' fer ye and 'is own parts at one time now, can 'e?"

_The wilding women favour fierce men; they would not think bedding one a distraction to him. She knows,_ Sansa realized, _and she is keeping our secret for us. _"Perhaps you are right, Osha," she forced herself to reply calmly. "I will consider what you have told me. I thank you for your concern."

Osha nodded. "I'll go find the lit'l lord now, m'lady. 'E misses 'is trainin' so's I said I'd show 'im to use a spear te fights."

Sansa hesitated until the woman reached the door. "Osha?"

"Aye, m'lady?"

"Osha, I…I cannot begin to tell you how very grateful and indebted I am for how you have cared for Rickon-"

"Ye thanked me many a'time. m'lady," she replied evenly.

"Yes, I guess I have…" Sansa stopped, feeling inadequate. "I guess, I mean..I. hope if there is anything I may do for you-" The hard-faced woman was uncomplaining and devoted to Rickon, having saved him and Bran from the sack of Winterfell.

"Once you've won the North, m'lady, be ready te fight th'Others," she stated bluntly, "that's all I'd ever ask of ye'."

Sansa watched her leave and then crouched by her bed to retrieve her dagger from underneath her mattress. She no longer wore it strapped inside her boot but in a leather sheath on a belt. It had belonged to the boy she had sat with as her died and, after hearing of the threats made against her by Ramsay Bolton, she wore it openly with the approval of her lords at Winterfell. The Greatjon had tested her grip. Galbert Glover had offered to have his squire hone it for her, though she suspected that he intended to do it himself. She had thanked him and instead asked for him to show her how to do it herself, though Sandor had already taught her. Squirrel had smirked.

"Lady got no business wit' a weapon lessen she's fixin te use it," she had commented to a young girl in the kitchen, loud enough for Sansa to hear her.

The same girl was with Squirrel in the kitchen now as Sansa entered quietly. The girl looked pale and weak and Sansa worried that the girl was not getting enough to eat. They had all been on even shorter rations to save stores for the soldiers' upcoming march east. She hoped that instead, the young girl simply had her moon's blood again. When the waif looked up, Sansa simply tipped her head towards the door. The girl understood and left obediently. Squirrel had noticed and now stood with a look of amused condescension.

"Are ye lookin' te speaks wit' me then, girl? I canna make more food outta less, can I then?" she challenged.

"No, Squirrel: you are managing very well with the rationing," Sansa replied smoothly.

"What yer be needin' me fer then?"

Once Sansa was closer she drew her blade and shoved the point under Squirrel's chin as her free hand reached to grab a fistful of the wildling's loose hair. Squirrel's eyes widened in shock and Sansa pushed her to her knees and drove her own knee into the woman's chest below her throat, knocking the wind from her lungs, and she placed the blade of her dagger along her neck.

Squirrel whimpered and shook her head. "Wha-wha-what've I done, girl?"

"My lady," Sansa corrected her. "I am the lady of Winterfell though I work alongside you, and you will respect me as I have respected you. You like to remind people that I have wildling blood and so here is your proof: I know how to use a dagger and I will fight for what is mine. Sandor Clegane is _mine_," she hissed as she pressed the blade closer. "If you should try again to make him yours, I swear by the old gods of the forest that you will die for it."

Squirrel barely shook her head, so afraid was she of moving and of being cut. "Don't…m'lady: I likes it here in yer father's castle. I'm sorry: 'e's a big man an' fierce as any "

Sansa let go of the wildling's hair and drew back her dagger. "Yes, he is; and he is mine. Is that clear, Squirrel?"

The woman remained on her knees. "Aye, m'lady: he be yours then."

"If you want to stay here then you must keep our secret, or I swear again that you will die by my hand," Sansa spoke low and precise so that the woman understood.

"I - I won't tell no ones, m'lady.."

Sansa nodded and sheathed her dagger before clasping her hands before her. "You may rise. I said you were managing well with the kitchen and I meant it sincerely. I am pleased that you wish to remain in Winterfell, as I am grateful for all of your very hard work, Squirrel."

Squirrel looked confused by the return of Sansa's gentle demeanor but she nodded nonetheless. She held her hand over her throat and eyed Sansa warily but Sansa merely backed away before turning and leaving.

When she entered the courtyard, Sansa saw that the soldiers had dispersed: most had gone into the Great Hall to seek the warmth of the hearths but Sansa felt too restless to join them. Her heart was pounding and she felt a sense of triumph and excitement. She turned around and wondered which way she would go now.

"The Blackfish and the Greatjon are in the hall, my lady," a young soldier told her when she saw her look about, "Lord Rickon is in the Keep with the maester, and Commander Clegane's gone to check his horse."

Sansa nodded her thanks and headed to the stables where she found Sandor brushing Stranger in the large rear stall that had once held Lord Stark's own courser. Many were offended at first until they quickly came to realize Stranger's mean temper and his habit of kicking and biting other horses as well as men. Sansa could hear Sandor talking to the beast in low and affectionate tones. She smiled.

"Sometimes I think you love him even more than me," she murmured once she determined that they were alone.

Sandor's mouth twitched into a smile as he kept brushing down his mount. "Sometimes I think he loves me more than you, little bird," he rasped hoarsely. He had been shouting commands all morning in the yard. "Do you miss nursing the soldiers: you're no longer dressed like a wench," he remarked.

"I am not needed this morning, and I am pleased that so many men have recovered. Do you miss wenching, Sandor?"

He turned and eyed her oddly. "I didn't wench, girl," he replied sharply, "I whored. And no: I don't miss it."

"Because you can have me; or because you can have wildlings?" she asked.

He stopped brushing his horse. "What's this nonsense, girl? If I wanted to play games, I would go back to the yard and draw my sword."

"Did you draw your sword with Squirrel?" She questioned him carefully now.

"So that's it. No, girl, I didn't draw my sworn...or unsheathe anything else I might thrust into her," he sneered. "I sent her away."

"Because she's a wildling?"

"Because she's not you," he blurted shortly. He furrowed his heavy brow in irritation and turned back to his courser.

Sansa's lips curled into a shy smile. "But I'm part wildling as well; have you not heard?" She walked further into the stall to stand behind him and rest her cheek against his broad back. "I am a lady…but I can act a wench, if it please you," she whispered.

"I know you can do, girl, but we were to keep this a secret. Off with you now, before someone finds us."

She wrapped her arms around his waist instead and slid her hands across his belly caressingly. "I miss you, Sandor. And you will be leaving so soon, within a turn. Would that I could go with you…"

"It's too dangerous. And so is what you're doing now if you don't stop it, girl."

Sansa stretched her slender hands and reached her fingers further down his belly.

He stopped and then threw down the brush and turned to pick her up under her arms before pressing her into the back wall of the stall. Her feet dangled above the straw and the smell of horseflesh and leather tack filled her senses almost as much as Sandor's sweat and warm skin when he pressed her harder into the rough boards with his body. Sansa began to pull up her skirts when suddenly she heard the door of the stable slam. Fearing they would be discovered, she ducked her face into Sandor's neck with a squeak of apprehension.

"Commander Clegane?" A soldier called.

"GET OUT!" Sandor's voice was hoarse and furious. "Get your own bloody wench! This one's _mine_!"

"Y-yes Com-m-mander," the man stammered and Sansa heard the sound of him bumping into walls and knocking over shovels and stumbling out the door. She gave a short giggle.

"Mine," Sandor repeated with a lusty growl.

"Yours," Sansa whispered softly as she kissed his neck.


	11. Chapter 11

**warning for a graphic scene suggesting a slow, agonizing death**

The Greatjon sat at Sansa's side in the Great Hall during the late meal, delighting her and making her sad with tales of his past visits to Winterfell for feasts and during the Robert's and the Greyjoy Rebellions. In the middle of recounting a story of their last harvest feast before her father left for King's Landing, the great man suddenly stopped and blinked, looking uncharacteristically lost.

"They were all here in this very hall, my lady: your lord father and lady mother, the Young Wolf…and my boy," he told her. Sansa thought he suddenly looked like the old man he was. She reached for his hand and held it in both of hers.

"It will never be the same, will it, my lord? Even if we are rightfully restored and have peace and prosperity one day…their faces will never grace our halls again. I grieve for your son, Lord Umber: he was so kind to me when I was a girl. He would ask me to dance and tell me I was the prettiest maid in the North-" she stopped short.

"You didn't want the North then, my lady; though I hoped you would someday. I would have asked your father for your hand for my son but you were too young, and then King Robert came and off you went."

Sansa smiled through her tears. "Would that you had asked when I was in the cradle, Lord Umber, and it had been settled: mayhaps my father and your son would be alive with us now, and we would be feasting to celebrate our marriage or our heir to Last Hearth."

He patted her hand now. "There's no changing what's past, my lady: we needs plan for the future. It's a nice thought though. Will you stay in the North with us?"

"I have promised Rickon that I would not leave him, and in truth Lord Umber, I know in my heart that I never wish to leave Winterfell or the North again."

"But will you not marry, my lady? Such a beauty as yourself should have many children," he enthused, but Sansa sat silently. "Forgive me, my lady: the Imp, is it? Sod the ugly dwarf: he's a Lannister. Find a good man and marry before the old gods like a Northern lady. Let the southron Faith squawk like hens: the new gods have no place here."

Sansa smiled endearingly at him now: she had come to love him like family. She was also grateful for his acceptance and camaraderie with Sandor once he had proved himself loyal to the Starks and fierce in battle. It helped that Sandor valued the Greatjon's opinion above all others in fighting in the North since the Umbers had fought many battles against wildlings which made him by far the most experienced warrior and the two men counselled with each other frequently.

Part of what she told the Greatjon was true: she thinks she would have learned to be proud to be the lady of Last Hearth, and she does wish she had never left the North…but then she would not have known Sandor.

….

Later Sansa lifted the floorboard to retrieve the jar of moon tea form her satchel. She shook it before removing the stopper, inhaling the now familiar scent. There was little left until Sandor was to leave with the army to besiege the Dreadfort but she would make it last. She had been using less of the tea leaves and more water but letting it steep longer. Her breasts had felt tender the last several days, and she took it as a sign of her approaching moon's blood.

She reminded herself to tell Sandor that she needed him to find more tea, mayhaps in White Harbor, before returning to Winterfell. She had thought to ask Maege Mormont as well but it had been decided that the She-Bear would stay in Winterfell with Sansa along with the many wildlings sent from the Wall by Jon and Stannis and the mountain folks who had found their way to the castle once word had spread that Starks had returned. Many of the men had been training to fight and some would join the march to Hornwood while others remained behind as guards.

After dutifully drinking from the stone cup, Sansa waited for some woman or girl to come and help her undress. When none appeared, she opened her door to look out and was surprised to see Sandor walking towards her and looking grim.

"Sandor?" she asked softly.

"My lady," he replied formally, "the maester and the Mormont woman have asked that you come to them quickly."

"Is it a sick soldier?"

"A girl, I'm told, is very ill. If you would follow me," he instructed gently now with a low rasp.

Sansa wrapped her shawl tightly around herself and followed him to the smaller chambers in the lower floors of the keep where unmarried girls and women slept. There was a torch burning at the end of a hall and Sansa saw Lady Mormont standing in the doorway with Osha and Squirrel.

"Lady Mormont: I'm told the maester sent for me?"

The She-Bear looked grimmer than Sandor had. "I know you've seen some terrible sights, my lady, but I advise you to prepare yourself," she told Sansa before letting her pass. Inside the small room, Sansa nearly gagged on the stench of blood and decay. On the narrow pallet lay the young girl she had taken in, the sheet that covered her was soaked in blood below her waist and her face was twisted in agony and drenched in sweat. She was whimpering and crying. Sansa ran to her.

"What's happened to her?" she asked the maester.

The old man looked at her, defeated. "A dead child, my lady, that will not be expelled. It rots inside her and poisons her."

Sansa was confused. "But the blood…surely the child is lost."

"She has harmed herself to be rid of it, and now they will both die." He turned his hand to show her a metal rod, long and thin and blood-stained. "It appears to be some tool from the smithy, or from the ovens," he wasn't sure. "If only she had come to me, my lady, or one of the other women, we may have helped her but she feared being sent from the castle, she said."

"Has she said anything else? Gods, who did this to her: she's but a child..."

The maester shook his head. "She asked for you and we thought she might tell you but it appears that the fever has taken her senses. We are not like to know the truth now."

Sansa shook her head. "One of our own men… Oh, please: can you do nothing for her?"

"I haven't even milk of the poppy to ease her suffering. She will be some time dying, my lady."

"I-I will stay with you then," Sansa told him shakily though the sickly smell of blood was making her ill.

"You are too good, my lady. You must not wear yourself out with so much to be done," the old man told her.

"She is a young girl without family who has suffered abuses from men or a man who claims to be noble," Sansa described her though they both knew that she could be describing herself. "I will stay until it is done, maester."

After some time passed, a soldier asked to speak with Sansa. When she rose and left the sick room she recognized the soldier from House Condon, the one who made a habit of questioning Sandor.

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but I believe I know what man is responsible for…" he gestured towards the tiny chamber.

"And how do you know this?" Sansa asked directly. Instinctively, she did not trust him.

"Another soldier went looking for Commander Clegane in the stables some days ago. Said the Commander was with a wench and ordered him out," he nodded his certainty.

"And this man saw the woman with the Commander?" Sansa asked cautiously.

He hesitated now. "Well, no he didn't but…she's dying of it, isn't she? He's a big man and rough; and he's known to have turned away wildling wenches so he must prefer another low sort," he sniffed almost haughtily.

Osha interrupted. "Girl worked the kitchen by day; th'other girls heard 'er sneakin' out an' back at night. Commander's in the hall or th'guards tower or guardin' m'lady by nights. So's it canna be him then, can it?"

The soldier looked defensive. "I'm only looking to help," he told Osha.

"We thank you, however it would seem that you are mistaken," Sansa spoke with finality.

The man bowed his head to Sansa and threw a glare at Osha before leaving.

"I'm not trustin' that one, m'lady," Osha commented.

Sansa bit her lip. "Nor I," she confessed quietly and returned to the maester's side.

Mercifully, the girl died early that morning and Sansa went to bed weepy and exhausted. Despite her fatigue she woke early, overcome with nausea, and vomited sourly into her basin. Remembering the sickly smell of blood from the girl's room, she brought up more bile. When another young girl came with her porridge, Sansa apologized for the mess and, hit by another wave of nausea by the smell of porridge, she bade the girl to take it back to the kitchen or eat it herself. At midday, she ate only the neeps from the watery soup but was ravenous by the evening meal and found it difficult to restrain herself and eat with her usual well-mannered daintiness. When she was visited by Sandor that same night, she found herself ravenous for him too, not even bothering to disrobe fully before pulling him down on her bed. Sandor stopped her.

"It's my lady I want, little bird; not a wench this time," he rasped gently. He finished undressing her and then himself before laying them both down beneath her furs and taking her in his arms. Afterward he pushed her long hair back from her face and caressed her neck and shoulders.

"There now, was that not better?"

"Mhn," she answered drowsily, "'m tired," she added.

He passed a callused hand over her breast and she flinched. "You're different," he noted curiously.

"Rations," Sansa murmured, "I'm too thin."

"Hm," he answered now, rolling his thumb over a nipple. "Does that hurt?"

"'little," she yawned, kitten-like, touching the back of her fingers to her open mouth.

"Beautiful mouth," he rasped hoarsely and kissed her softly. "Sleep then," he said when she did not respond. "I'll go back to my chamber."

Sansa slept and did not stir again until morning when another wave of nausea hit her, making her void her stomach into her basin again. Once more she found the smell of food intolerable, and traded kitchen duties with the girl who gathered eggs from the scrawny hens. She was always hungry by the evening meal, and then so fatigued that she would yawn during war strategy meetings in the Great Hall, the faint warmth of the hearth lulling her to an almost slothfully indulgent sleepiness. Finally the Blackfish summoned the maester.

"You have doubtless worn yourself out caring for others," the kindly man nodded knowingly. "You needs care more for yourself. Would that we had fresh fruits or juices to liven you and improve your health," he lamented. But the very thought of sweet, fresh fruit made Sansa suddenly nauseous again.

_Gods, I have become so accustomed to poor rations that I cannot even bear the thought of lemon cakes._

That night Sansa dreamt of King Joffrey's wedding feast: she was incapable of leaving her seat as course after rich course was set before her, making her sick with nausea and dread, but instead of Joffrey tearing out his throat from poison the young girl from Winterfell's gates appeared and bled and writhed and sweated and died before her.

_Murderer! Murderer!_ The guests pointed to the man beside her but instead of Tyrion Lannister it was Sandor next to her at the feast, covered in blood and vomit from the Battle of the Blackfire. When she looked down she was wearing his bloodied Kingsguard cloak. He smiled tenderly at her.

_I'll keep you safe…_

Sansa woke with a terrified jolt, so overwhelmed with fear that she found she could only breathe in with short gasps for air. Throwing back her furs she stumbled to the window shutters, for once needing the cold fresh air of winter. As she looked up at the sky, her attention was caught by the bright silvery glow of the partial moon. She stared at it curiously, wondering why it seemed to call to her, and then she felt a greater dread than that she had felt in her dream because she knew she was not dreaming: the moon in the sky was real and it was past the first quarter and Sansa had not bled.

_No._

She sank to her knees and covered her mouth with her hands as she slowly shook her head.

_Oh no. Gods of my father, help me: I promised…_


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa sat huddled on her bed until dawn, praying that the nausea that had plagued her would pass this morning and that and her moon's blood would arrive late, only late. When finally she could not help herself from retching into her basin, she succumbed to tears of helplessness.

_Oh Sandor, I'm so sorry._

Steeling herself, she rose and dressed, donning her fur-lined cloak and boots to set out to the outer walls of Winterfell. Walking the halls and stairwells of her late father's castle comforted her, even with its broken, crumbling towers and soot-darkened ceilings and damaged, splintered doors, Sansa felt a deep sense of relief and even peace that she was, at long last, home.

She thought of her terrified panic when she had her first moon's blood in the Red Keep, when she realized that she had flowered and could be married to Joffrey, the prince who had ordered her father executed and had let her be publicly stripped and beaten by his Kingsguard. She had tried to burn the evidence by putting her sheets and even her mattress on the fire. But there was no panic now; only a dull resignation and a sense of emptiness and loss from knowing that Sandor would be angry with her, that he would no longer trust her…and that he would leave her.

She also bore the burden of knowing that she had lost her chance to help her people by making an alliance. Sansa may not have liked the idea of selling herself in marriage, in truth it left her almost as bereft as she felt knowing that she had disappointed Sandor; but as she nodded in greeting to each shivering soldier that she passed standing sentinel at his post behind crennels, she understood the strategic necessity of having a lord husband with an army at his back.

_Strategic necessity. _ She scoffed sadly at herself. _Listen to yourself now, little bird... You truly are the Lady of Winterfell, aren't you?_ Sandor had said.

Sansa stopped to look out to the wolfswood and then buried her head in her hands. A lady. How could she possibly consider herself a lady now? She loved Sandor with all her heart but he was a soldier in her family's service, little more than a sellsword, and she had opened her legs for him and gotten a bastard child against his wishes. Sansa thought of her kind father, her proud lady mother, and even Septa Mordane; she cringed to remember hearing of Cersei's walk of punishment: having to parade naked through the streets of King's Landing as an adulteress.

But she wasn't in King's Landing; she was in the North, she remembered as she raised her head again. Alysanne Mormont had bastards and was heir to Bear Island. Sansa did not like to think of herself as being anything like Alysanne Mormont though she had to accept that she was now, in some way; but at least the Northmen accepted her. Since Rickon was heir to Winterfell and destined to be Warden of the North; mayhaps her great-uncle Blackfish or Lord Umber would advise him if she were made to step down. She prayed her bannermen would not desert her, though they may no longer respect her, and would remember that they were fighting for themselves and the North after all.

"My lady, are you well?" the maester spoke from behind her.

Sansa hastily brushed away her tears and feigned a smile. "Good morning maester, I find that the cold air is quite invigorating," she rubbed the cold tip of her nose with her palm.

"Indeed it is, my lady. What brings you up to the walls? The air is just as invigorating in the yard, I find."

"I- maester, I wished to draw strength from looking out on my father's lands and seeing what we are fighting for. I like to remember where I am from, for it helps to remind me who I am, and why I must do the things I must do," she told him firmly.

"Ah," he nodded, "our lady is a philosopher too. But you are too modest to think so, therefore I will simply say that you are thoughtful and dedicated," he smiled. "But I fear for your weakened health, my lady. Allow me to escort you down to the yard, if I may?"

"I thank you, maester," she acquiesced, taking his arm. "Forgive me, maester, but…the girl who died…troubles me-"

"Naturally, my lady: the happenings of the bloody bed are the most troubling for a woman," he lectured.

"What she did, or what was done to her: you said this poisoned her? I don't understand, I'm afraid."

"When a child dies within the womb but is not expelled," he explained delicately, "it rots like any dead thing, and so fouls a woman's body and blood. You observed festering wounds on the soldiers and how they required amputation before the poisoning of the blood can spread?"

"I see, maester; and if the child had been expelled from her body, then-"

"One cannot say for certain, my lady: bleeding out a child can also cost a woman her life, if she bleeds too much. Even those who survive are thereafter oftentimes barren, my lady."

The word resounded in Sansa's ears like a horrible curse. _Barren._ Even if she were to marry to secure their position, her lord husband would expect sons from her; and to endure a loveless marriage without the comfort of children struck her as too much to bear.

"In King's Landing, maester, I…I heard from women in the Red Keep of tea that can-"

"Moon tea, my lady: tansy and pennyroyal are known for their efficacy in such matters, but the risk of bleeding to excess is still considerable once a woman has quickened. Many who use it do not understand the necessity of a proper dosage, and even those who do may err, to unfortunate effect." He lowered his voice confidingly: "I believe you will find most women use this tea as a _preventive_ measure."

Sansa nodded vaguely, showing that she understood. _Efficacy, unfortunate effect: I fear I could enlighten you as well, maester, _she thought dully.

"Desperate women will try all manner of things, my lady: falls, hard riding, squatting over baths of onions or mustard; some men have beaten babes from their mother's bodies. These are all dangerous, my lady, but I am afraid they are all practiced widely and always have been. Perhaps it is not fair, though I find little in life is fair, but it is the woman's lot to be burdened with the consequences of…well, forgive me if I have been too frank, my lady."

'Not at all, maester: I feel responsible for those in Winterfell, and in particular the young girls. It helps me that I mayhaps am able to counsel them in turn," she thanked him.

"A pity we could not have counseled the poor waif. I have naught here at my disposal that could have ended her childbearing but at least we could have seen her through her fears and mayhaps helped her birth a healthy babe; though she was so very young."

Sansa spent the rest of the day closeted in her father's solar. As she sat listlessly overlooking a table full of maps and ledgers and her untouched midday meal, Sansa thought about what the maester had told her. Any means she may think to use to rid herself of a child could possibly cost her life, and she was simply not willing to take that risk. She had promised Rickon that she would stay with him, and if she failed him she knew that another loss might devastate him and make him furiously wild and angry. He may even run away, back to Skagos or to the wall to be with Jon, and then the Stark line would end. She thought of her family, of their love and her parents' hard work and devotion to their children who were meant to carry on once they were gone : a legacy eight thousand years old would be lost forever.

The shadows lengthened across the worn floor as the weak sunlight faded. Sansa tried to remember her father's face now but closed her eyes in pain when all that appeared before her was his head on a spike.

_They tried to ruin us, to put an end to the Starks forever. I am trying, father, mother: I am trying so very hard. I failed you in King's Landing, father, and then I chose to trust Petyr, mother, because he said he loved you, but I was wrong. I could have run away with Sandor but I came home, for you, for Rickon, and for the North. Help me, I beg you: help me to know what is right now._

"Little bird?"

Sansa's heart stopped. The familiar rasp, the wonderful endearment: her heart broke to know it was all lost. She could not even bring herself to look towards him. She absently straightened the maps on the battered table though she knew they had no order.

"Little bird, is this where you have been hiding all day? I thought that you were ill again," he walked into the solar and she heard his footsteps approach where she was sitting. Sansa felt herself tremble and her tongue grew thick in her mouth. She searched and then reached for the flagon of water but Sandor picked it up first, holding it until she glanced in his direction, though she still would not meet his eyes.

"You're angry with me, it that it? I left you last night because you were so tired, little bird, not because I don't want to be with you," he rasped gently.

She bit her lip to control herself, so desperately did she want to break down and cry, to throw herself in his arms and beg his forgiveness. Instead she took in a sharp breath.

"I- I fear…that you will no longer want to be with me anymore, Sandor," she spoke in a quavering voice.

He huffed a short laugh. "What in buggering hells do you mean? Of course I will." He set the flagon down with a thump.

Sansa reached for it with trembling hands, and nearly spilled it trying to pour some into her cup.

"Here, let me do that. What in seven hells is wrong? Sansa?"

He hardly ever used her name. I t was enough to make her look up slowly. As soon as she met his eyes, her own filled with tears.

"I'm sorry, Sandor," she whispered.

His heavy brow furrowed deeply and his scarred mouth twisted in confusion. "What for? What's happened?" Suddenly his eyes widened in realization and his mouth turned grim. He stood tall and straight: the posture of her sworn shield.

"I see. I has heard that you went up to the walls with the maester. Was there a raven? There's been an offer, hasn't there? You'll needs marry soon and so you must tell me that we cannot be together anymore, is that it?"

Sansa swallowed with difficulty and shook her head slowly.

"No, Sandor, there is no offer," her voice broke and squeaked, "nor will there be. I-" She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap: the knuckles white and her nails digging into her own palms. "I have…there is…something has gone wrong…I-" she failed to stifle a gasping sob.

Suddenly Sandor leaned over and put his large hands on her shoulders. "Look at me! What has happened? What did the maester tell you? Are you truly ill? By the Seven, little bird," his teachings from the Quiet Isle came out unbidden, "tell me what is wrong!"

She had looked up when he had ordered her to and saw the fear and worry in his eyes: wide, dark grey eyes filled with loving concern for her. Her heart clenched painfully inside her chest for when she told him, she knew that love would be gone. Her courage deserted her for she could not bear to see it. She dropped her eyes again and her voice came out a hoarse whisper.

"I- I am with child."


	13. Chapter 13

A heavy silence followed Sansa's words. It was undoubtedly a short pause but it seemed to her to last an eternity.

"What did you say?" His rasp came out flat, uncertain.

She shut her eyes tightly and spoke again. "I am with child, Sandor."

His hands tightened on her shoulders. "How is that possible?" he growled. "You said you were taking the bloody tea."

"I was, Sandor, but it was not the tea from the old woman in the Neck. I- I spilled most of it and so I mixed in the leaves from the other pouches we bought but I fear it was not as strong…" She looked up at him now. "I never broke my promise to you Sandor; not intentionally."

His face was stony, his eyes hard. "And you never thought to tell me this? Gods, I should have stopped you, and myself when I first told you it was dangerous for us to continue. If we had not lain together after I returned wounded this never would have happened." He took his hands from her shoulders suddenly and passed one great palm over his face. "Do you know what you've done, girl?" he rasped accusingly. "You've brought a child into this. You and your brother are not secure; and even if we do rid the North of the Boltons and Freys we must then deal with the rest of Westeros. You were supposed to make an alliance." He put a closed fist to his forehead in frustration and anger. "Seven buggering hells: we both have a price on our heads. It's not just us who will suffer now; can you imagine what they will do to a child of _ours_? Look at me!" he raged. "Monsters do not spare children or even babes."

Sansa shook her head pleadingly. "I would undo it all if it were possible, Sandor; but the maester had no means of helping me and you know what happened to the girl I took in. I know our lives are not safe and our position is not secure, but I cannot risk my life when I have promised Rickon that I would not leave him. I must stay with him and continue to do everything I can for the North, as long as I am able. You must understand."

"The North is it? And how do you think your bannermen will like my getting a bastard off you? Might be they'll have my head before any of our would-be kings or queens will. You were supposed to play the honourable Stark maiden for their loyalty, and get an alliance through marriage: you even agreed to that…and now we're both expendable," he spat bitterly.

Sandor turned away and walked towards the hearth where he stopped and braced his hands against the mantle with his back to her. Sansa followed haltingly and held her hands tightly together to keep herself from reaching out to touch him as she wished to do. She could hear his breath heaving furiously.

"I know how much I have disappointed you, Sandor; and I know how very badly I have failed my people in thinking only of my own heart…but I- I could not stop wanting you. I love-"

"Still a little bird with your head full of songs," he rasped dejectedly.

Sansa stood tall now and squared her shoulders. "I am not that anymore. I have not been for some time and you know that well," she told him firmly though her voice still shook from emotion. "My love for you is real, Sandor, it is not a song or a story. I had to lose almost everything and suffer a great deal to realize that, and so you must believe me when I tell you that it breaks my heart…it kills me to know that I have in failed you in any way or betrayed your trust," she continued hoarsely as her throat constricted from hurt and sadness.

Sandor continued to stare into the fire. When he did not reply to her, she spoke again.

"I know that you cannot forgive me. I know that you will leave me…and I understand, Sandor. I know this is not what you wanted, you have told me many times. I will not blame you…or hate you for leaving, I never could. I'll always love you, Sandor," she reached to stroke his back but pulled her hand away and instinctively pulled it back to clutch her throat. "And though I will mourn your leaving and miss you every day, I will be happy to have some part of you with me always. I will love our child so much, Sandor. I will give it all the love you should have had as a boy…and I will speak well of you to him or her and tell of your great and gentle heart, and how big and strong you were and how brave-"

"Brave," he growled disparagingly. "How brave would I be if I ran off and left a woman with my child in her belly? You think that's brave? Seven _fucking_ hells," he swore and turned back to her, his chest heaving as he sighed, looking defeated.

"I only wanted what was best for you, girl, even if it wasn't me…." He looked at her momentarily with regret in his grey eyes before setting his jaw with determination. He took a step closer to her. "But you're stuck with me now, girl," he nodded grimly towards her belly. "We'll see this through; even if we all die together. I swore to protect you, little bird; now I swear to protect you and our little wolf…or dog…whatever the little pup turns out to be."

Sansa's eyes had widened in surprise and she felt certain that she had misunderstood, though her heart had stopped seizing and she felt that she might breathe again.

"Sandor?" She sniffled shakily. "You'll stay? You'll stay in Winterfell?"

"I'll stay, and I'll fight. We have to win now, little bird, if we are to live, and you will need all the help I can give you…if you'll let me and your Northerners will let me. We'll win our cause…our die trying: those are the only choices we have now."

Sansa breathed in a great gulp of air and shook her head as though to clear it, before smiling gently at last even as her tears coursed down her cheeks.

"Oh Sandor…" she whispered, her heart so full of love and gratitude that she felt lightheaded and found that she had not the words to tell him what a profoundly generous gift he had just given her. "Thank you," was all she could say.

He looked down on her grimly. "This won't be easy, little bird; many won't like this or even accept it."

"I don't care, Sandor," she insisted passionately, "it's you I care about-"

"You might care soon enough. Might be I don't wake up one morning once everyone sees your belly and knows it's me who ruined you. Might be I ride off to battle and never come back, and who's to say then who did for me? You may end up on your own, little bird, and without protection. Better hope someone here cares what happens to you if I'm gone," he reasoned darkly.

Despite his grim words, Sansa was overwhelmed that Sandor would chose to stay with her when he was seemingly convinced that he would die for it, and that his concern would still be for her. She had thought that she would lose him and now he was giving more than she ever had hoped. She wanted to go to him, to touch him but she was uncertain if he would want it.

His eyes darted to her middle again. "What did the maester say…about your…condition?" he asked carefully.

Sansa shook her head again. "He does not know; I only asked about the dead girl and what might have been done for her. That is how I know he could not have helped me to…" she paused.

"And if he could have?" Sandor prompted her.

Sansa looked into his eyes and told him the truth. "I- I don't know, Sandor. I did not want to disappoint you, or break my promise to you."

They stood in silence again for a moment, neither knowing what to do next.

"I'm very grateful, Sandor," she began again, "for all you have done, and are willing to do for me. Please know that I love you for it, and always will," her voice was thick and whispery again. She ducked her head as her tears started again.

"Clegane? Sansa?"" The Blackfish stood in the door of the solar. "Is there something the matter?" he asked in his smokey voice. He walked into the room with his eyes on Sansa, though she looked up to Sandor for guidance.

Sandor glanced down at his boots and the back to her. "Best you tell him now, get it over with. He's your family, girl," he advised somewhat sourly.

The Blackfish looked from Sandor back to Sansa. "What is it you needs tell me, child? Are you ill?"

Instinctively, she reached her hand out to Sandor and before she could pull it back, he had taken it and held it tightly. She found her courage then.

"Great-uncle Brynden," she took a deep breath. "I am with child."

The Blackfish turned immediately to Sandor. "Yours, I have no doubt," he pronounced flatly. "Did we not have enough to concern ourselves with? Well, it's done clearly. Rickon is a child, so you'll answer to me: and what do you intend to do about this?" His Tully blue eyes were hard as stones under his thick grey brows and he looked the formidable knight he was. Sansa feared that Sandor may have been right about her lords' acceptance.

"I intend to see it through," Sandor pronounced defiantly. "I will stay and protect your lady and mine, and I will fight for the North as I have pledged to do. Nothing has changed," he rasped.

"Tell it to her maid when her gowns no longer fit her," the Blackfish waved his hand towards Sansa, "and to the maester when she takes to the birthing chamber. She is carrying your child and soon all of Winterfell and the North will know it. I ask again, Clegane: what is it you intend for my great-niece?"

Sandor grew impatient. "What would you have me do, then? She is wed to another. Much as I'd like to kill him myself and make her a widow-"

"The heart tree," Sansa exclaimed. Lord Umber had told her to marry before the heart tree, as a Northern lady.

"What is that you said, child?" the Blackfish asked her patiently.

"Lord Umber told me the new gods had no place in the North, and that I should marry before a heart tree," she told them.

"You were married in a sept, child, in the eyes of the Faith-"

"I was _forced_," Sansa insisted vehemently. "They only wanted my claim. And he was never my husband; I was never his wife, though he wrapped me in red and gold-" she stopped suddenly and looked up at Sandor wide-eyed. "Your cloak," she told him.

"What of my cloak, little bird?" He seemed confused and concerned by her change of topic.

"You gave me your cloak, Sandor: in King's Landing. You swore to keep me safe and…you lay on my bed with me…the night of the Blackwater. All this before I was forced to marry in the sept. Sandor, in the eyes of the old gods we are as good as married: that is all that is required. Therefore it is my marriage to- it is my second marriage that is not valid."

"Seven hells, little bird," Sandor breathed uneasily. Sansa knew that his time on the Quiet Isle had made him respectful of the faith; at least of the brown brothers who had taken him in and saved his life. The Elder Brother had been kind and treated him with simple dignity and patience; he had treated him as a man, and not a Hound. She knew that Sandor had not forgotten, nor would he. He shifted and looked about the solar before speaking again. "Will this be legitimate?"

The Blackfish snorted shortly. "That concerns you now, does it?"

"This is not about me," Sandor snarled. "I would give her and the babe my name as well as my protection. Might be it'll make it easier for them all to stand, but bugger them if it don't."

"Will you speak those same heartfelt vows in the godswood," the Blackfish asked archly.

"Great-uncle, please," Sansa begged softly. "Sandor Clegane has offered to make me his wife before the old gods," she looked up into Sandor's eyes now, "and I would accept him with all my heart."

Sandor looked down on her and squeezed her hand again. "Well do what's right, little bird; but he's got to consent: he's your family."

The Blackfish put his hand on Sansa's shoulder and turned her to him. "Is this truly what you want, child? I will stand by you if it is, but it is not my decision but in fact Rickon's as the heir to Winterfell. I think we needs inform him. Though I have no doubt he will consent." He turned his head to Sandor. "You have been good to the boy," he relented gracefully, "and he would be pleased to call you brother."

Sandor seemed to calm somewhat at this semblance of a truce and nodded his head respectfully.

"I'll fetch the boy then," he rasped and left the solar.

Sansa suddenly felt overwrought. "I- forgive me, great-uncle, but I needs sit down…" she mumbled weakly.

The Blackfish acted swiftly, and brought the only chair in the solar to her so that she might sit by the hearth. After murmuring her thanks, she looked up to see with studying her under those heavy grey brows.

"Please, great-uncle, so not look upon me so harshly. I know I have done wrong; and that I should be ashamed-"

"Do you love him child? Is this truly what you want?" he asked her concernedly. "I have long suspected that you cared for him but thought it might be a passing fancy," he continued. "You are still young."

Sansa hesitated. "It is what I want, what I have wanted for some time, great-uncle, only…not like this," she looked up to him now. "I promised Sandor that I would not let this happen." She flushed as she confessed now. "I have been drinking moon tea but I- I did something wrong; it was not strong enough to prevent… I only wish I knew that this is truly what he wanted, but I fear that it is not." She bit her lip at what she was about to say. "Sandor Clegane is being _honourable_." She looked up at him sadly. "And I shall be grateful to him and love him for all my days; but I wonder if he will ever truly trust me again."

The Blackfish heaved a sigh. "There will be time later to worry about that, Sansa. However we have far more pressing matters to concern ourselves with now. We wait for word from White Harbor, but we will march very soon: before the next turn of the moon I'll wager. And then will know if the North is won, and then our fight continues to the south; or if all is lost." He paused before leaning closer. "I want you to go to Bear Island, Sansa. The Mormonts' people will protect you, as the wildlings will protect Rickon; and from there you may reach the wall and the protection of Jon and Stannis…if we should fail."

Sansa raised her head. "I will not leave Winterfell, great-uncle. I will die here if I must. I have already made Osha swear to have me buried in the crypt if aught should happen to me when you are gone. This is also what I want," she told him with finality: the Lady of Winterfell. She clasped her hands in her lap now, and waited for Sandor to bring Rickon.

**AN:** _I feel it necessary to stress that what I have written about contraception and abortion is in no way meant to be part of any social/moral/religious/political stance or agenda. It is simply part of a story set in a medieval-ish fantasy world and means to reflect the reality of the time and the circumstances of the characters in the story. I could easily have glossed them over and not dealt with them but then there would have been no story to tell._


	14. Chapter 14

Rickon bounded into the solar with Shaggydog. Sandor followed behind. When Rickon saw Sansa, she could tell he sensed that something was wrong by the way his brow furrowed and his eyes, Tully blue eyes like her own and their great-uncle's, darkened with concern. He ran to her and stopped short.

"Sansa? Sister, what is wrong?" He searched her face as he asked and Sansa discerned that he could tell she had been crying.

Sansa put on a brave smile to comfort him but she continued to twist her hands in her lap. His great direwolf sat at her feet and nudged her arm. She absently reached to pat him. She thought immediately of Lady and wished that she could throw her arms around the direwolf and cry into the thick fur, just like she wished she could cry in Sandor's arms.

"Sandor said that you needs speak with me, that it's very important," he squirmed slightly. Rickon liked his sword training, and some of his lessons with the maester, but grew bored if he had to sit in the hall and listen to anything other than battle plans.

"Yes, it is. Rickon," she began tentatively, "you know that you are heir to Winterfell, and that I only rule as warden until you come of age?"

Rickon's nodded solemly and now his look was almost pained. "You won't leave me, will you?"

Sansa gasped: "No. Rickon, no, I won't leave you but…as Lord of Winterfell, Rickon, I would…would ask your leave…" Sansa stammered and blushed; she could not tell so young a boy that she was with child. "Rickon, Sandor Clegane and I…we would ask your leave to- to marry."

Rickon's smile nearly burst onto his small, dirty face. "You and Sandor? You'll marry? He'll be my brother for true and stay with us?" He was so happy he could barely stand still, but Sansa dropped her eyes in her lap: she could feel her cheeks turn red because she felt so ashamed. Rickon thought it was a happy occasion and she wished it could be.

Her little brother reached to pat Sansa's hands in her lap.

"I give you leave, sister: you and Sandor may marry." He spoke as importantly as he could but Sansa only nodded.

"We thank you, my lord," she heard the Blackfish replied swiftly and then added: "Best it's done quickly then."

"Aye," Sandor replied flatly, "before it can be stopped," he added darkly.

Sansa turned her eyes up to Sandor again. "I'm so sorry, Sandor," she whispered in a voice thick with near-tears.

She saw Sandor hesitate before he stepped closer to her. He reached to brush the backs of his fingers across her cheek.

"It's alright, little bird," he rasped low. "It will be alright." Sansa placed her slender hand over his momentarily and nodded bravely again.

"I'll fetch your cloak," he told her now.

"The grey one, please, Sandor…it must be the grey one," Sansa spoke anxiously. Something of the ceremony needed to seem traditional to her and Stark grey, while it was not a true maiden's cloak with her father's sigil, would suffice. Besides, when she remembered the beautiful cloak Cersei had draped around her in the Red Keep, the first indication that she was being married off without warning and against her will, Sansa was relieved that she would at least have the right man at her side, and that meant more to her than having the right maiden's cloak.

Sandor's mouth twitched into the barest smile of understanding as he turned to leave the solar. "Aye, little bird, the grey one," he agreed and disappeared into the hallway.

The Blackfish also stepped towards the door. "We'll need witnesses naturally," he looked down at Sansa.

"Lady Mormont," she replied unhesitatingly, remembering how the She-Bear had not judged her for loving Sandor, "and mayhaps Lord Umber?" The Greatjon would accept a union made before the old gods, and seemed to respect Sandor as a man.

The Blackfish also showed a ghost of a smile. "The She-Bear and the Greatjon: I think we can count on them," he spoke with resignation and Sansa again ducked her head. Her great-uncle had been close to her lady mother and had admired her strength; she wished she had not disappointed him so very much.

She looked up now as she felt Rickon step closer to her. She saw that he was puzzled.

"Why are you sad, Sansa?" he asked worriedly. "Don't you want to marry Sandor?"

Sansa looked at him now, at his big blue eyes that no longer looked so angry and untrusting as they had when she had first seen him again. She hoped he was happier now.

"You look like mother," he told her suddenly, and Sansa's heart yearned desperately for her mother on this her real wedding day and the day she realized that she was carrying her first child. She had been supposed to have a mother for these times, but that was taken from her. She struggled to remain brave for Rickon.

Sansa brushed a tear away. "Do I? I wish she were here, Rickon; I wish they were all here. I do love Sandor, Rickon but…it…it will not be a true lady's wedding…this way." She absently placed a hand from her lap on her belly.

"I wish Jon and Bran would come, but I'll be there, Sansa, and we're family, and soon Sandor will be too." He smiled happily at the thought, and then his eyes widened as though he had another happy thought, though he hesitated now. "When you're married, you can have babies, Sansa, and there will be even more of us," he suggested hopefully.

Sansa stared at him a moment before feeling herself smiling sweetly at him. _There is my sweet little brother._

"Yes, Rickon, I'll have babies," she promised him.

Sandor appeared in the doorway then with Sansa's grey cloak.

"My lady, my lord: the Blackfish is waiting in the Godswood. It's time," he said. He held out Sansa's cloak by the shoulders, meaning to wrap her in it but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

"As heir to Winterfell, my lord brother will cloak me in our house colours; you may give me your cloak before the heart tree," she told him softly, realizing that they would shortly be wed and she would no longer need hide her love for him.

Sandor looked down at his own cloak, dark and dirty from training, and patched from wear. He looked back to her again.

"I haven't even my colours or my sigil to cloak you in, girl," he growled but she knew he was apologizing to her in his reticent way.

"As long as it is your cloak, Sandor, I will wish for nothing more," she reassured him. "Rickon will escort me to the godswood. I think you must go ahead," she told him.

He nodded and found the door again. She turned her back to Rickon now and kneeled so that he could cloak her in their colours. She thought to when she refused to kneel in the Great Sept of Baelor. _No one cared how I felt then; but Rickon does now, and my great-uncle and Lady Mormont and Lord Umber will stand for me. I'll have my own family and my own friends and people. I will be truly married this time._

She stood tall and raised her head, proud and happy despite the circumstances.

"Will you take my arm, Rickon, as father would have done if he were here?" she asked him gently.

Rickon looked serious and nodded, and then wiped his nose on his sleeve when he sniffled. He turned his head to call to Shaggydog as they left the room, and Sansa did not object. _He is our family too_, she told herself.

But the direwolf trotted off into the trees once they entered the godswood, and Sansa saw Sandor standing before the great weirwood with the Blackfish by his side. Lord Umber, immense and threatening in his furs held with leather straps smiled at her and nodded his approval after formally bowing his head. Lady Mormont bowed her head as well, and Sansa suspected that she winked.

"Lord Umber explained how it's done: first pray to the gods, then turn and speak what you will to each other," the Blackfish murmured. A Riverlander, he was raised to worship the Seven but respected the Northerners' traditions.

Sansa and Sandor turned to the carved face of the weirwood and bowed their heads. Sansa prayed that Sandor would still love her, that their child would be born healthy and the North would rise again, free from those who would harm the lands and its' people. She prayed for her family, the dead and the living, especially for Arya, the only Stark still lost, and she hoped that she would return to them someday. She raised her head and turned to look up at Sandor who was looking down upon her with a determined resolve.

"Rickon?" Sansa prompted and kneeled as she unfastened her cloak. Her brother lifted it from her shoulders and the Blackfish held it for him. Sansa's heart swelled as Sandor removed his own cloak and stepped to around her shoulders, wrapping it in the front to keep her warm.

"As your sworn shield I gave a vow to protect you," he rasped, "I offer it again as your husband: I will protect you, your family, your home and the North…and our children. I've no lands or titles or gold; but I give you my sword and my body and my mind to fight…and my heart… to take care of you."

Sansa smiled up at him. "All I have wanted these last years has been to come home to my family, and to marry a man who wanted me for myself and not my name or my claim. You have given me everything I longed for, Sandor Clegane, and I promise that as your wife I will devote myself to you and our family as I do to Winterfell and the North."

"Are they married now?" Rickon whispered to his great-uncle.

"I didn't think I needs explain that you kiss her, Clegane," the Greatjon boomed and Lady Mormont laughed.

Sansa was surprised to see Sandor look abashed, and so she stretched up on tiptoe as he cupped her cheek in one hand and kissed her gently and fleetingly.

"Now they're married, boy…my lord," the Greatjon corrected himself when the Balckfish raised his brows at him. "You did well in your lord father's place," he told him.

"Rickon, will you not thank Lord Umber for his compliment?" Sansa prompted gently but her brother was looking off into the trees.

"Shaggy won't come," he noted, and set off calling his direwolf.

"Supper will be served soon, my lady, Commander: shall we announce the marriage or-" the Blackfish wondered.

"Aye, that'd be best," Sandor rasped and Sansa nodded her agreement.

Rickon returned with Shaggydog. "Shaggy's all excited," he grinned. "He must like that you're married too. Might I call you brother now?" He smiled up at Sandor.

"If it please you my lord," Sandor answered formally but with a smile.

"It does. Let's go eat. Come, Shaggy!"

Sansa had done away with the high table meals at in the Great Hall, preferring to sit with different lords and their soldiers each evening, remembering her father's admonition that a leader should know their people. But tonight she invited her lords all to sit at one table with Rickon, the Blackfish and Sandor and herself. She suspected their proximity to her and their young lord would compel them to be gracious when the announcement of her marriage was made and that their soldiers would follow their examples; and she proved to be mostly right. She did note a group of soldiers at a far table looking grim and who turned their backs and hunched over their ales when the Greatjon lead a cheer of approval and good wishes _for our lady and Commander and for the North! _ They eyed each other and touched tankards lightly and Sansa saw them repeat _for the North._ She looked to her great-uncle and inclined her head towards the table and he nodded his understanding. He would watch for them, she had no doubt. After a pause, Sansa rose from the seat.

"If you will permit me, my lord" she smiled at Rickon. "Some of you will doubtless think me imprudent to marry when our position remains tenuous and there remains much work to be done. But I spent years of my life being a prisoner and so now no longer wish to be controlled by those who care not for us, or for the North. We shall soon all be able to live on our terms, and I will forever be indebted to those of you who have fought for our family and for yourselves. I thank you…_we_ thank you for your kind wishes and regret that rations forbid us a wedding feast to share with you. Mayhaps, one day in the future when there is peace and plenty again, we will all gather in this same hall to celebrate."

"_Our Lady of Winterfell!" _The cry came from some Umber soldiers at a nearby table.

"And is Commander Clegane our Lord of Winterfell now?" This sullen question came from the far table of slouching soldiers. It cast a hush over the hall.

Sandor rose, his end of the bench scraping the rough floorboards, and stood looking over the entire hall.

"A lord has lands and his own army; I am Commander of our Lord Stark's army in Winterfell, and will remain so as long as he wishes," he rasped levelly. "And despite this marriage, I expect you all at training early tomorrow," he added and many soldiers laughed.

Talk resumed and people began rising and talking amongst each other and coming and going from the hall. Sandor rose to speak with the Greatjon and the Blackfish while Rickon stood with them, enjoying the manly talk and company. Many soldiers did come to offer their solemn wishes for her happiness and Sansa was deeply touched. Not surprisingly, many of the wildlings approved: a big, strong fierce man was what a woman needed, and no man was stronger than one who had faced fire and bore the scars to show it. They slapped Sandor on the back and patted Sansa's shoulder.

"Yer wee ones'll be kiss't by fire ere afore they be born, m'lady," a large wildling with a long beard commented jovially. "tha's true good fortune inna North."

Before long, Sandor returned to her side to sit.

"We have rations to thank that none are drunk enough to try and bed us," he rasped low to her. "Shall we retire now, my lady?" He held out his large calloused hand to her.

Sansa was momentarily surprised before she realized that they were married and that he no longer needed to sneak into her chamber at night and leave before dawn. She was his wife and they could share a bed without hiding. Her heart filled again with happiness as it had when he wrapped his cloak around her, and she could forget the guilt and trepidation that had been at the back of her mind throughout the day. Mayhaps it had not happened the way she had hoped, but Sandor had not only agreed to stay by her but marry her as well. She had every reason to be happy and grateful.

She put her smaller hand in his. "I will be happy to accompany you…husband."

**AN** part of this chapter was based on the story "Awkward' from sansan fic week.


	15. Chapter 15

When they arrived at Sansa's chambers, Osha was directing a group of boys carrying bundles.

"We've just finished bringin' th'Commander's things, m'lady…less'n you was plannin' t'move into 'is chambers," she inquired archly.

Sansa giggled. "I think not, Osha; thank you all for your efforts, and so quickly accomplished."

"I takes it yer not needin' a girl t'undress ye' t'night, m'lady," she asked absently.

Sansa looked up at Sandor. "That will not be necessary, thank you."

"G'night then, m'lady. Commander. Th'wine be frum Lor'Glover's supply."

When Sansa walked in, she saw a flagon and two cups on a small table with a small loaf of bread and some fried figs. The bed had been piled with more furs and another bolster which she assumed were from Sandor's small chamber, and the fire burned higher than usual. They had been given some extra firewood, she concluded. She reminded herself to thank Osha but also to ensure that it did not happen again. She and Sandor could not risk any more resentment.

Sandor stood in the room looking around and seemed to spy his belongings piled on a wooden bench that had been placed near the bed on the opposite wall from the hearth.

"Had you anything hidden that they may have missed?" Sansa asked.

"I doubt that wildling misses a thing," he rasped, "but I can check later." He looked her over as she moved towards the bed to sit on the edge.

"Would you like some wine, or will you sleep?" he asked now.

Sansa looked up at him, feeling suddenly desolate. Did he no longer want her?

"Sleep?" she repeated without thinking.

"Aye, you have been very tired these last nights. Are you not tired…from…the babe?"

"Oh," she exclaimed as her hand touched her belly. "Well, a little…I suppose but…this is our wedding night, Sandor," she reminded him and felt her face turn red.

He looked to her belly now, his brow furrowed in concern. "You mean we can…I mean…is it safe…for you…and the pup?"

She smiled tenderly at his concern now and ducked her head. "I believe so, Sandor, though it may be best if we are…gentle…with each other."

He stood still a moment before walking towards her, his grey eyes looking at her intensely. Once he was before her, he reached to trace his fingertips from her brow and down over the soft curve of her cheek to her chin. He raised her face to look up at him now.

"I can be gentle with you, little bird," he whispered hoarsely.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat but she stood now to reach her arms around him as he folded her in his and held her close.

"Thank you, Sandor," she whispered into his tunic, "thank you for staying with me-"

"Sh, sh, sh," he hushed her as he stroked her hair and her back. "No more of that, little bird: it's our wedding night, as you said."

"I just never want you to regret what you have done for me, Sandor," she pressed her forehead into his chest as he began to work loose the laces of her gown.

"I don't, and I won't…but we're not safe yet. Not everyone in the hall was happy." His voice was touched with bitterness.

"Rickon was overjoyed; he loves you as much as I do, I think," she stood still as he lowered her dress from her shoulders. She pulled her arms back from the sleeves, then placed her hands over his as he lowered the gown from her hips. The dress, her nicest bluish-grey wool she noticed now, fell to the floor and she stepped out of it. She had no corset, only a shift and underskirt. Sandor tugged gently on the ties and Sansa let them fall from her body. Her heart was beginning to pound when Sandor lifted her from under her arms so that she sat on the edge of the bed again. He kneeled before her and pulled down the wool stockings on one lithe leg and then the other.

"Lie down now, little bird, and wait for me," he rasped and brushed his lips against her forehead. Sansa pushed herself to the middle of the bed and lay her head down against the bolster and watched Sandor shed his clothes: boots, tunic, wool under-shirt, two pairs of breeches and heavy woolen socks, before sliding in bed next to her. He looked at her face and down the length of her body in the firelight, tracing his fingertips over her skin as he went. He stopped at her belly and laid his hand on it and she saw his brow furrow quizzically before he bent his dark head and kissed her tenderly.

She giggled. He rubbed his lips back and forth across her belly, the soft side of his mouth and rougher scarred side tickled her. The he moved higher and brushed his lips under her breasts and then finally over her nipples. Sansa sighed and arched her back towards him.

"Gods, Sansa…you're more beautiful now than ever."

"It's because I'm so happy, Sandor. I'll make you happy too, my love: I will." She wanted to promise him, but she had done so before and did not want to remind him, not now.

"You do…you have," he breathed hoarsely before covering her mouth with his.

Sansa opened her mouth to his and let their hot breath mingle and fill each other's lungs. She clutched his back and shoulder and writhed beneath him, trying to press herself into his hard, strong body but he would not settle on her. He rested on his elbows above her as he kissed her face, her neck and her shoulders. Sansa felt his hard member brush her belly and the hair over her mound and so she opened her legs and rubbed her thighs over his hips, almost desperate with need for him. Sandor moved one arm above her head and lowered the other to grasp her hip.

"Are you sure?" he panted.

"Yes, my love, please…" _Make me your wife for true and forever._

Sandor pushed into her, slow and deep, and she heard him grit his teeth and hiss as he tightened his hand on her hip. He paused a moment before beginning to move, rocking his hips and looking into her eyes with the same loving tenderness she remembered from their first nights together, when his desire for her was surpassed only by his fear of hurting her; and when her love for him was tempered by her fear of disappointing him and how they were both burdened with the knowledge that one or both of them would die if they were discovered, or that they might simply starve or freeze to death.

Sansa reached her hands up to his face now and caressed both sides, then raised her head closer to his and brushed her lips over his mouth, staring into those stormy grey eyes she loved. She ran her hands down his neck and chest and around his waist and then down his back until they came to rest on his hard, muscled behind. Sandor grunted his pleasure as she traced circles over his bottom, feeling him tighten with every push into her. She angled her hips towards him and began to move with him, finally bending her knees and pointing her toes in release as waves of warmth surged through her and she cried out softly.

Finally she felt Sandor's weight on her and his hands in her hair, caressing her tresses before closing his fists into her mass of auburn waves and suppressing a shout as he peaked and spent himself with a shudder.

"Little bird…" he whispered after a moment, "did I hurt you?"

"No," she whispered back and to her astonishment realized she was crying. "I- oh, Sandor," she hugged him tightly, "whatever happens now, I will have had this: this night together as your wife, with your child inside of me…" her voice trembled with emotions that near-overwhelmed her, "and no one and nothing can take that away."

Sandor stroked her hair and then her cheek and she heard him sigh. "I hope not, little bird. I-"

"No. We both know how quickly and horribly things can change; how everything can be lost. But _this_, Sandor, we have this now, and so we will have it always. You have made me the _happiest_ I have ever been, Sandor; and so right now I feel as though nothing else matters."

He continued to stroke her cheek with his thumb, lost in his own thoughts. Then he nudged her nose lightly and kissed her gently.

"Thank you for saying that, little bird," he rasped quietly. "I wish I could make that true for you…for us."

Sansa knew there was nothing to say: they would live or they would die, and only the gods could decide their fate. And so she kissed him back and drew him down next to her so they could wrap their arms around each other under the furs and sleep together as husband and wife, knowing that in the morning he would still be there…for now.

….

The next day, Sansa found herself on her feet at the map table: too anxious and determined to sit still.

"…but how can we storm the Dreadfort when our people may still be inside? Would the Boltons and the Freys not threaten to kill them?"

Robett Glover shook his head sadly. "My lady, I fear that Winterfell's people are already lost. We know of the Boltons' and Freys' bloody savagery from the Red Wedding; and the bastard's cruelty is boundless. He is depraved."

"Aye, but Lord Bolton is more cunning: he is not like to waste valuable hostages," another man suggested.

"Valuable? These were tradesmen, servants, children: naught but chattel to them, and needing to be fed and clothed. You cannot imagine they kept them alive for anything but work or…forgive me, my lady, but there were young women at Winterfell. I do not like to think-"

Sansa closed her eyes and shook her head. _Beth. Palla._ Girls like herself when she left home, prisoners like herself but with no names or claim to shield them from the worst treatment or even keep them alive.

"If only there were some way…" she said, almost to herself.

"Weasel soup," one man commented and some others laughed. Sansa gasped in shock at what she thought was their callousness.

"Forgive me, my lady: I meant no offense," the soldier offered swiftly and politely when he saw her reaction to his words. "But we were once prisoners in the cells of Harrenhal, and we were freed by…" he shook his own head now in disbelief, "by a girl. A scrap of a thing she was, bringing men carrying pots of hot soup that were flung at the guards, burning and blinding them so's we could escape and kill the rest. Remember my lord?" The soldier turned to Lord Glover.

Robett Glover smiled a harsh smile and nodded. "I remember. Poor thing. The Mountain re-took Harrenhal after Bolton left for the Twins: I'm afraid she is not like to have survived his…retribution," he finished grimly.

"What we need is a Weasel inside the Dreadfort, my lord."

"Why _weasel_?" Sansa asked now.

"It's what name she went by, my lady. Likely an orphan, family killed in the fighting: like that," the soldier commented casually.

"So many dead," Sansa mourned, "and so many left to fend for themselves, even children," she closed a fist to keep from touching her belly.

The Blackfish looked at her from across the table from under his craggy grey brows. "I'm afraid there are like to be many more before we are done, my lady," he reminded her in his smokey voice. "And the Dreadfort must be taken, regardless the cost: inside or outside the walls. This is how wars are fought."

She looked to Sandor now who closed his eyes, scarcely nodding his agreement. Defeated, Sansa did the same and then remembered her position. She raised her head.

"Thank you, Great-uncle, and my lords for your council. I have a woman's heart but a man's responsibilities: please know I understand and appreciate that you should speak truthfully to me, even when it is not what any of us would wish to hear."

They all rose as she stood and bowed their heads and murmured "my lady" as she turned to leave. As she made her way across the inner court and then through the dimly-lit, winding halls of the keep to her chamber, she sensed..something, and turned suddenly.

"Who's there?" she called, trying to keep her voice from shaking. But she heard only the hiss and flicker of the torch in the wall at the far end of the hallway and her own breathing. She gasped as she saw a shadow approaching now.

"Little bird," Sandor rasped, "did you call me?"

"I- I thought I heard someone here," Sansa almost laughed with relief.

"Mayhaps a rat," he offered casually, "…or a weasel," he teased her. "The Blackfish will take the night's watch on the walls. He bid me comfort you after all that." He leaned his head back towards the Great Hall.

She smiled wanly. "Thank you, Sandor. I don't like to think of what may have happened to the people here."

"Then don't," he rasped. "We saw plenty of corpses on our way here, girl, and we'll see plenty more before it's settled."

Sansa looked up at him searchingly. "Is this what you offer as comfort?"

"A dog don't lie, girl. And I know better ways to comfort you than words."

Once in their chambers, Sandor lifted her in his arms and climbed onto their bed where he lay on top of her and ran his hand down her body. Sansa winced when he squeezed her breast.

"That hurt?" he asked.

She nodded. "A little, I-" She meant to tell him she though it was the babe making her breasts swell and hurt but Sandor lowered his head to her chest and nuzzled gently.

"Poor teats," he rasped, "I'll kiss them better for you, I-" He stopped suddenly.

"Sandor," she whispered desperately and felt him nod. They had both hear the soft slither of steel being pulled from its sheath. He reached his hand under their bolster for the hidden dagger there.

"Who are you?" he demanded now. "Bolton or Frey, or Ironborn?"

A silence followed. "I'm no one," a gruff voice answered from the shadows.

Sandor turned now, and Sansa saw where he was looking. Near the shuttered window was a small figure, thin and hooded. A thinner glint of steel showed a faint reflection of the light of the hearth fire.

"I'll kill for my lady, boy: have you decided you've lived long enough?" Sandor's rasp was harsher that stone on steel.

"You've lived too long, Hound. What are you doing in her bed?" The voice was not afraid.

Sansa was afraid. The boy knew Sandor, and wanted him dead; without thinking, she pleaded now.

"He's my husband. I love him; please do not take him from me."

"Come back to see me finished off, Wolf-bitch?" Sandor growled.

"Might do," the voice answered firmly.

Sansa was confused and still frightened. "Sandor?"

"Your old gods have answered your prayers, little bird. Might be it costs you your husband, but you have your little sister back."

Sansa looked again at the slight figure but did not see what Sandor saw. Then the would-be assassin stepped closer and lifted its hooded face, passing a hand over it as it did. Then Sansa saw grey eyes in a long face, a pretty face: young but strong and fearless. She clutched at Sandor's arm now.

"Arya?"


	16. Chapter 16

Sansa lingered as she crossed the courtyard of Winterfell. She could hear Rickon and Arya laughing as they ran into the Godswood with Shaggydog at their heels, their breaths fogging in the cold air. It had been almost a fortnight since Arya had returned, shocking those who remembered their father's sister Lyanna with her resemblance to their aunt and her similar strong spirit. Sansa found her beautiful, even in her breeches and tall boots and sword belt: she looked so Northern, so much like a Stark with her grey eyes and dark hair and quiet strength, masking an inner wildness; even Sandor had grudgingly grunted his agreement when she told him.

But though she had returned to them, Sansa found her sister distant and guarded. She did not elaborate on where she had been and what she had been doing, other than to say she had sailed to Braavos and lived and worked as a commons until word from sailors had reached her that Starks had returned to Winterfell and she had made her way home. She talked more with Lady Mormont and Lord Umber about winter and fighting in the North than she talked to Sansa. Rickon had seemed to remember Arya better and had adored her from the moment she had shown him the slender sword she called Needle that had been forged by Mikken and gifted to her by Jon. She sometimes showed him Braavosi-style sword handing after Sandor had finished with his training. In the evenings before he went to bed, she sat with him by the hearth of the solar and he told her of his adventures on Skagos, chattering easily in a way he did not with Sansa or even with Sandor.

Sansa sometimes envied them. She felt that she had so many responsibilities and worries that she wished she could laugh and even play with them; but she also wanted to spend her rare free moments with Sandor before the garrison rode for Hornwood to join Lord Manderly's forces against the Dreadfort. And Sandor had only an uneasy truce with Arya who still regarded him with suspicion despite Sansa's protestations that she loved him and had married him willingly, that he had protected her and brought her back to Winterfell, that he fought for the North and most importantly, that he was no longer the Hound that Arya had known in the Riverlands.

"He has changed so much, Arya; if only-" Sansa tried to convince her.

"So have you," Arya countered flatly, "if you could let him touch you. He killed Mycah. He served Joffrey. Joffrey killed father."

Sansa raised her chin. "Do you think I don't know that? I was there on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor when Joffrey…called for father's head. And I could have saved the butcher's boy, Arya: you know that. Sandor only served and did as he was told. He knew no other life; and because of the way people have always looked at him and treated him, he believed he had no other choice."

Arya stared stonily at her. "I was there too, Sansa. I saw father condemned, though I did not see him die."

Sansa's eyes filled with tears. "I- I thought I was alone…the only person who cared. Why- why did you leave me alone with them? Where did you go?"

"Away," she answered shortly, then relented somewhat. "A man of the Night's Watch who knew father helped me leave King's Landing, but we were captured…by the Mountain and his men. But I escaped again." She scoffed and smiled slyly. "I was captured and got away every time…even from your _husband_," she remembered.

"I know about that," Sansa replied. "You left him to die. It may be the best thing that could have happened to him."

"I wasn't expecting a brown brother to take him in," Arya shrugged dismissively. "I just thought he'd die."

"So did he, Arya."

"Well, he didn't. Rickon likes him. You married him. I guess I'll have to make do with that," Arya said and walked away, quiet as a shadow.

Later, Sansa curled up in Sandor's arms and told him everything. "I though…I hoped that after everything we have all been through and all we have lost: father, mother, Robb, that she would forgive me and want to be as real sisters. But she is so cold toward me Sandor," she sniffled now and wiped a tear away.

"She's a hard one, little bird, and was even in the Riverlands. Seen too much, and who knows how she lived in Braavos…" he rubbed her back and kissed her brow.

"I don't know because she won't tell me," Sansa lamented tearfully. "I saw horrible things too, Sandor," she added with a whisper.

"I know, little bird," he soothed her. "Give it time…and if she don't come around, might be it's for the best and there can still be an alliance," he advised her.

Sansa raised her head to look at him. "Arya? Marry a lord? Sandor, you cannot mean it."

"Why not?" He rasped harshly. "Why should all the duty fall to you? You'll have even more to concern yourself with soon." He always dropped his voice and cast his eyes down to her belly when he referred to the babe she carried "She's a Stark, same as you; the boy's too young still."

Sansa was silent. Of course Sandor would want what was best for her and those in Winterfell; he may even like the thought of Arya married off far away from them. But Sansa still felt hesitant to ask of Arya what she had been so reluctant to do herself, and to have her leave Winterfell before they might reconcile.

"I will consider any offer of course; but I do not think I can force Arya to agree, nor do I think Rickon would want her to leave Winterfell."

Now Sandor was silent. "Many of us will leave Winterfell, and soon, little bird. Let's not talk of your sister anymore," he rasped low.

Sansa turned to him and cupped his scarred cheek in her hand now. "We need not talk at all, if it please you, husband," she murmured to him.

Sandor's mouth twitched and he lowered his forehead to hers. "Aye, that would please me very much…_wife_."

….

"No bloody way! NO!" Sandor shouted.

"You can't tell me what to do: you're not _my_ husband, dog; nor are you Lord of Winterfell. Rickon is."

"It is out of the question, Arya child. I won't allow it. You are not coming to Hornwood with us," the Blackfish spoke levelly but firmly and with finality.

Sansa was close enough to the solar to overhear their talk. She knew it was wrong to listen like this but she knew her presence would be like to make Arya leave or at least stop talking, though she marveled that her sister was speaking with Sandor.

"I can take care of myself," Arya insisted, "and I can help: you have no idea what I can do-"

"I remember too bloody well what you can do, wolf-bitch, but you're staying here. I won't have the soldiers worrying about a high-born girl."

"The Mormont women fight," Arya countered.

"The Mormont women are built like bloody aurochs, and they have fought battles before," Sandor spat back at her.

"And what makes you think I haven't, dog?"

"Because I know your Braavosi sword-dance would count for shit in a real battle, girl," he growled. "A greatsword would break your little blade in two…and slice you open like a ripe cheese."

"Arya," the Blackfish tried to reason, "you must notice how the men look at you child: you are a distraction. And worse, you could be hurt or, gods forbid, captured; Bolton's bastard is a cruel and vicious monster, most particularly towards girls and women."

"I wish they _had_ married me to him," Arya said now. "I would have killed him and ended this long ago."

Sansa heard Sandor laugh.

"You don't believe me, dog?" Arya challenged.

"I believe you, wolf-bitch-" he began

"Then let me kill him."

"No. And that's final," Sandor rasped.

"Forgive me, I needs consult with Lord Umber before tonight," she heard the Blackfish say, and Sansa pressed herself into the shadow of the hallway when he left the solar to turn down the stone stairs towards the yard.

"You're staying in Winterfell, with the boy and your sister," Sandor continued. "They need you here."

"There's lots of soldiers staying with them, and Lady Mormont besides," Arya argued.

"Aye," Sandor rasped, "but they're not family. The She-Bear will guard them with her life, so will most of the wildlings and commons here; but it's Starks needed in Winterfell. I won't have you leaving when you just got here, or risk having you not come back. If we fail, if anything happens to the Blackfish, or me…I want _you_ with Sansa. The boy's her brother but he can't help her; you can."

There was a brief pause. "Sansa doesn't need me," Arya muttered. Sansa's heart ached to hear her say it.

"That's where you're wrong, wolf-bitch; she does need you. She's stronger than you give her credit, aye, and she's learned to live rough and use a blade herself thanks to me. But she's your sister, and even if it means bugger all to you, it means everything to her: she wants you here, wants you to be her sister. I know. Bawled in her sleep after learning that you'd lived, that we'd crossed the Riverlands together and been at the Twins for that…bloody wedding. She hated that you were out there somewhere on your own and that we might never learn what happened to you. She prayed every day to your tree gods to bring you back to her…so I won't be the one that takes you away."

Sansa heard his footsteps crossing the solar.

"So hate me all you want, wolf-bitch, I'm used to it; but _not_ Sansa; don't you bloody break her heart more than you have," he rasped threateningly. His footsteps receded again.

"You love her," Arya remarked in her gruff voice, so that it sounded like an accusation.

The footsteps came back, louder, as though determined. Sansa could almost picture Sandor looming over her smaller sister.

"Aye, girl: I love her. _Nothing_ in this world is more important than her…do I have to beat that into you?"

Arya almost sounded chastened when she replied: "No, dog... I'll stay...for now."

Sansa slipped away now back to her chambers, her heart and mind a jumble.

_Arya mayhaps will only be nicer because Sandor told her._ _Why would she want to leave us?_

_He still loves me, he does. He said so. I heard him._

Once she closed the door behind her, Sansa lifted the floorboards to retrieve her satchel. She took what she wanted and replaced the boards before going to sit on the bed. She held her surprise in her hands, impulsively putting her face into the rough tunic to inhale the scent of Sandor. She had let on that she had given it to be laundered but instead she had taken some time each morning while he trained in the yard to stitch a semblance of his sigil onto the front. She passed her hand gently over the three black dogs she remembered from the tourney in King's Landing and pursed her lips. Sansa knew she could do much finer needlework, but the only thread she had was painstakingly unraveled from a dead soldier's tattered tunic, and was needed for patches and mending more than this but she had wanted to give him something, anything before he left her again.

She turned suddenly when she heard the door open.

"Little bird, why are you here? They're gathering in the hall to eat. They wait for you, you know," he rasped.

"Let them wait just a little then, Sandor: I have something for you," she took his hand and led him to the bed.

"Now? He laughed. "If you want me to take you, little bird, they'll be waiting more than just a little…"

She held up the tunic for him to see. "You haven't worn your sigil in all the time we have been together Sandor, and I wanted to give you something, a- a wedding present mayhaps you can think of it-" He was looking at it warily and then looked to her.

"Might not be wise, little bird; to remind them I'm the Hound-"

"You're not the Hound," she answered unhesitatingly. "You are Sandor Clegane and this is your house sigil: three black dogs, the three dogs that died when your grandfather saved the life of his lord."

"His _Lannister_ lord," Sandor rasped.

"You are not to blame for Lannister crimes, Sandor," she began.

"Because I only did as I was told…like the Kingsguard only did as they were told when they beat you bloody, girl?"

"You never beat me," she reminded him.

"No, I did nothing," he scoffed.

Sansa sighed. "You are not that man anymore, my love: no one knows that better than I…" she looked at the tunic again. "Who are you if you are not Sandor Clegane; who am I if not Sansa Clegane?"

"You're the Lady of Winterfell, little bird."

"I am your wife, Sandor," she stepped closer and put her hand on his arm, "and our child will be a Clegane."

His brow rose in surprise at her words and once again his eyes sought her belly.

"Rickon will be Lord Stark of Winterfell one day. And we will be Cleganes: please, my love, I beg you do not let them take this from you, from us; we have both lost too much already."

He stood tall and took the tunic from her, holding it up to his chest. He looked down at it and nodded; then his mouth twitched and twisted in a grim line.

"What is it?" Sansa asked.

Sandor sniffed. "I've no gift for you, little bird, I didn't think of it…"

"You have given me and our child your name, Sandor; I would not ask for more…only, come back to us-" her voice caught now. "We both love you so much."

Sandor threw his arms around her and pulled her close, the tunic now pressed between then as he squeezed her tighter.

"We leave tomorrow, little bird. The Blackfish was going to announce it tonight at supper-" he sniffed harder now. "Best we hurry now: we both needs be there for all to see."

Sansa squeezed him back, and wondered if he felt it as much. "I'd rather stay here with you," she mumbled into his chest.

"Aye, me too, but we can't," he rasped. "Go give them your bravest smile, little bird," he leaned back now and took her face in his large hands. "They'll like that; might be you're Sansa Clegane now, but you're still their Lady of Winterfell."


	17. Chapter 17

Sansa carefully smoothed her gown and hair. She and Sandor had spent the whole night in talking and gentle lovemaking and then come morning, had succumbed to their desperate passion and coupled almost frantically over their bed with Sansa's skirts raised and Sandor breeches unlaced. He watched her adjust her bodice now.

"Don't bother with that, little bird: you'll needs be covered in your cloak anyways. It's colder than Cersei's cunt out there."

Sansa's tummy always clenched at the mention of Cersei, once her idolized ideal of a beautiful, gracious and golden queen; then her cruel tormentor who judged her stupid and worth only her claim to Winterfell and the North and what heirs could be gotten from her. Well, today Sansa's army was leaving to reclaim the North from Lannister vassals.

Sandor's crude statement was nevertheless right, it was very cold but clear, and had been clear for several nights. She had joined Sandor and his men one night on the walls to watch the stars spread out across the endless black sky. Sandor and the others had reminded her of the names of the constellations and which stars were used for navigation. Again, she had taken the time to learn the soldiers' names, the lords they served and their hopes for the future. It helped to remind them that they were fighting for themselves, and not just the Starks.

In honour of the fight to reclaim the North, the vanguard had been given to the Greatjon; he would be followed by parties lead by Lord Glover, Sandor and the Blackfish. Some men from every house were required to stay behind in Winterfell to make up a home guard to be led by Maege Mormont. They were supplemented by men from the Mountain clans, as well as wildling men and women sent by Jon at the Wall to protect his family.

"They'll keep you safe, my lady," the Greatjon had assured her. "We've cleared the woods of stragglers for now, and patrols will go out every day to ensure they do not return…though between the She-Bear and Lady Arya none would survive an attack on Winterfell," he laughed hugely. "Now I know you belong to Clegane, my lady, but surely he can spare this old warrior a kiss for luck."

"With pleasure, my lord," Sansa smiled and stretched up to kiss his cheek. "Please know that my heart goes with you, with all of you, and all our hopes for the North."

He looked fondly upon her and nodded. "For the North, my lady…and for all those lost," he added solemnly.

Sansa embraced him again, and the big man mounted his horse and led his men out the gates. She continued circulating among the soldiers, offering greetings and praise and encouragement. To her surprise she say Arya doing much the same though with more camaraderie and less formality than Sansa; but Arya had never cared for formalities, nor wanted to be regarded as a lady. Sansa was a married lady and acting Warden of the North and much more was expected of her and she would not fail, she simply would not allow it. Lord Glover was preparing to mount up and lead his men out into the frozen winter.

"My lord, please know that I will pray every day in the godswood for your victory and your safe return."

"My lady, I would die happily if I may avenge our King of the North and your lady mother and all our fallen Northmen," he gripped her hands tightly and looked determinedly into her eyes. "The North remembers, my lady."

The North remembers," she repeated solemnly and bowed her head to him in respect. "My lord."

"Would we could take your direwolf, my lord," some men were teasing Rickon, "he'd not only kill Boltons but hunt for us as well."

"Shaggy is fierce and of the North like all you soldiers. You'll kill as brave as he would," the boy told them wide-eyed and innocently. "Right, Sandor?"

Sandor turned from tightening Stranger's girth. "Aye, my lord, and though I am not of the North, I will kill for you and your house, for the North."

"You're of the North now, brother: you married Sansa," he told him reasonably and ran off to find Arya.

Sansa looked up at Sandor now, and his grim face twitched into a wry expression. "Good thing he reminded me; I'd forgotten," he rasped ironically. "We'll be gone several turns of the moon at least," he nodded unthinkingly towards her middle, "mind you look after yourself."

Sansa stepped closer now. "I will, husband, if you promise to do the same. If you should nor return…" Sandor's brow furrowed, "…in time; what name shall I give him or her?" Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Give it a Northern name: your father's or brother's…you must choose for a girl. I-"

"Would you not like a girl to have your sister's name?"

A pained line appeared between his eyes and Sansa wished she could embrace and soothe him. "Forgive me, my love" she whispered instead.

"You are kind…but a Northern name," he insisted firmly, and Sansa nodded obediently.

"Sandor, please know that I shall think of you constantly, pray for you constantly-"

He lowered his head to her's. "I'll miss you, little bird; I- I can't make you promises."

She pursed her lips, troubled. "I know, Sandor."

Abruptly, he raised her hand to kiss. "Farewell, my lady."

Sansa gripped his hand tightly and pulled it to her own lips and kissed in gently. "Farewell, my love."

Sandor mounted Stranger and reeled him towards the North gate. "Move out," he called and walked his horse as Sansa followed alongside. She stood aside just before he crossed the drawbridge over the mostly frozen moat and spurred Stranger to a canter, his shod hooves clattering over the wooden boards.

_Gods protect him; I love him so. Let him return to me and our child. Let them bring peace to the North. Winter is here._

The day was cold and the daylight hours were short. Already shadows were lengthening across the snow in the courtyard, made slippery in places by being tamped down by the hooves of many horses.

"Sansa; my lady," she heard the Blackfish call her. She turned away from the gate and walked to where he stood near his horse with Rickon and Arya. He huddled them together protectively and spoke quietly and seriously to them in his smokey voice.

"You are Starks of Winterfell," he began, "you are also Cat's children. I want you to look after each other, and to obey your lady," he emphasized to Arya and Rickon. "Sansa knows what she is doing here, she's taken on all the responsibilities and done it very well and so you will respect her for that," he continued firmly and Sansa could see Arya drop her eyes and shift on her feet.

"But Lady Mormont knows warfare," his tone changed and his mouth grew grim, "and is she decides that you must leave, that you must run and hide, then you will obey her-"

"But great-uncle, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell," Sansa protested.

"There must be living Starks for that," he countered flatly, 'and you will not risk your lives. Split up if you must: there are soldiers, wildlings and mountain folk here. They all know the North and they all know how to survive in it. Make your way together or separately to Jon at the Wall. The Boltons will never attack with Lord Stannis there, and he recognizes you as the rightful heirs to Winterfell."

"Yes, great-uncle," Sansa reluctantly agreed. She had not returned to Winterfell to have to leave again. "I will offer prayers to the new gods for you," she added.

The Blackfish looked at her fondly and reached to put a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. "You're so much Cat's daughter, Sansa; but you're a Stark as well…"

"I'm a Clegane now too, great-uncle." She raised her chin as she spoke.

"Yes," he leaned in closer as Sandor had done. "Take care of yourself, child," he murmured gently.

"Please watch over Sandor when you can," she pleaded to him quietly. "There are those in our ranks who may not want to see him return."

"I put them with Lord Umber and Lord Glover's men. They'll be watched, child, when it's possible but…we'll need those prayers, Sansa: this is no skirmish or sortie; this will a siege, and war.

"We can never be grateful enough to you great-uncle, for all you have done for us; you have taught me how to live by your words: _family, duty, honour_," Sansa told him. "You shall always have a home in Winterfell with us."

Her great-uncle looked yearningly at them, as though he regretted leaving them. "I'll be back," he told them.

As the Blackfish rode out with his men, Sansa followed and stood by the East gate. The parties had left by different gates in case any scouts were watching, hoping to confuse them. But the army needed to reach Hornwood rapidly to save their stores and lessen their exposure to the cold. A snowstorm may hide their approach but also heighten the risk that they should lose their way. They could even be buried alive, if it snowed hard enough.

Once all the gates were closed, Sansa climbed to the outer walls to watch them ride out. Her heart filled to see the streams of men on horseback followed by sledges laden with supplies and wildlings and commons on foot, their pikes and axes faintly visible over their shoulders. Shaggydog, released from the godswood once the horses were gone, came to stand beside her and prop his muzzle in a crenellation. Sansa ruffled the black fur affectionately.

"I'm so glad you're with us, Shaggydog; I wish your brothers and sisters were with us too," she confided. She caught the eye of Arya, who had heard her, but then Shaggy nudged Sansa's face when he licked her and when she looked again Arya had moved away. She did not see her again until she raised her head from prayer in the godswood and found Arya next to her with Rickon. When she finally rose to return to the keep, she thought she felt her sister watching her.

Once she reached her chamber, Sansa saw that Osha was before the fire, warming something in a kettle.

"Com'an sit close, m'lady; t'was powerful col'outsides an' ye was there all day."

"I thank you, Osha; but I cannot continue to have more rations than the others. My fire should not yet be lit," she reminded her.

"Aye, m'lady bit there wer'n't no fire inna solar t'day so's I had part th'ration brung t'ye here," Osha countered reasonably in her flat voice. "You'll be wantin' this, m'lady," she handed Sansa a stone cup filled to the brim with warm goat's milk.

Sansa balked at another violation of rationing. "The milk is for the children, Osha."

Osha stared at her levelly. "Aye, m'lady," and continued to hold it out to Sansa.

After a pause and a strong sense of realization, Sansa took it gratefully. "Thank you, Osha. I- Commander Clegane said you missed nothing," she murmured.

"I 'spect 'e's right, m'lady," the wildling replied evenly. "Come an' sit now."

"I pray that you tell me something then, Osha; since you miss nothing…can they win?"

Osha's expression stayed the same as she took the kettle from the hearth and the flagon that had held the goat's milk from the mantle. "Aye, m'lady," she replied finally, "but not easy-like. I don' needs tell'ye some 'em men's not comin' back."

Sansa nodded her head slowly as she held the stone cup tightly, warming her hands on it before she drank.

"You haven't cried yet," Arya noted gruffly, and Sansa turned to see her in the doorway. "You used to cry so easily."

Sansa paused before answering seriously; "I sometimes marvel that I should have any tears left to shed, Arya; but here I am the Lady of Winterfell, and must be brave and strong for the people who look to us, to me, as Warden. Father knew that, and doubtless so did Robb and mother." Sansa remembered that she had also once hoped to be a queen, and to have people love her, not fear her; certainly not pity her. But she did not say so to Arya. That part of her life was best forgotten though it still robbed her of sleep when Sandor was not there with her. She dreaded the nights now, nights and moons without him wondering if she would ever have him back.

'It wasn't supposed to be Rickon…as Lord Stark, just as it wasn't supposed to be father-"

"Nor was sit supposed to have been the bastard son of a wildling king," Sansa smiled slightly to remember the legend of Bael the Bard and his seduction of the then-Lord Stark's only daughter. "He left her and their child," she mused now, "and only returned to fight _against_ the North." She turned to Arya now. "Squirrel likes to remind everyone that we have wildling blood through Bael; mayhaps she thinks it will keep the other wildlings loyal. I was never meant to be Warden…but I will do what I must." She turned back to the fire now. "And I will not leave Winterfell again; you and Rickon must leave if Lady Mormont says. The wildlings have promised to bury me in the crypts."

"You promised the Blackfish-"

"I am with child, Arya. In a few moons I will be big and clumsy; I will be unable to ride…If the child dies inside me then my blood will be poisoned and I will slowly die. I will slow down and endanger anyone who means to help me. If I am to die, then I will do it here," she finished quietly. She drank her milk, listening to the fire crackle and roar in an updraft and then still. Arya had closed the door. She came to stand at the hearth now and looked at Sansa who spoke again.

"If aught should happen to me, Arya…it will fall to you. Will you take care of Rickon, and be their lady? Will you stay?"

"I can only promise to see Rickon safe to Jon, or with some other Northern lord; the Reeds might be. No one would find him in the Neck. I can't promise that I can stay…I certainly cannot promise to be a lady."

Sansa narrowed her eyes at her sister. "You would leave Rickon without family: how will he learn to be a Stark?"

"You and Clegane aren't the only ones with a bounty on your heads," Arya blurted defensively. "I shouldn't be here…but I wanted to come home."

Sansa stared incredulously. "Arya," she whispered. "Arya, what- what have you done? We'll keep you safe, whatever it should be-"

"You can't. And I can't tell you," she looked around the chamber evasively. "But I can keep you safe. I'll stay with you, if you like, now Clegane's gone. He's fighting for the North…least I can do is protect his wife and baby," she offered gruffly.

Sansa nodded tearfully, grateful that she not needs sleep alone and be tormented by her nightmares from real life.

"Thank you, Arya…sister."

"Rickon and Shaggydog might want to stay too."

Sansa laughed and nodded again. "The Starks in Winterfell," she recited.

Arya almost smiled.

…..

Sansa was in the kitchen several days later when she heard cries from the yard. She exchanged looks with Squirrel and hastily wrapped herself in her cloak before venturing outside.

A large crowd had gathered: commons, wildlings and soldiers, all staring up open-mouthed at the sky as the snow fell steadily. Some began to whimper and clutch at each other's hands. In the distance, she could hear Shaggydog's mournful howl.

"Gods, what is it? The snow is heavy but the ranks are likely near Hornwood by now if not there already-"

Osha turned to her, and for once, a shadow of fear crossed her face. "T'ain't the snow they's lookin' at m'lady," she spoke ominously.

Sansa looked up to the sky now. The snowfall was heavy and endless, further darkening the already grey sky. She was about to ask what they saw when she caught sight of the enormous shadow circling high above them. Her heart stopped.

_No. No…it cannot be._

"Dragon…m'lady," Osha whispered with deadly certainty.


	18. Chapter 18

Days passed in Winterfell with its inhabitants going about their duties in hushed watchfulness. The soldiers and wildings watched the skies for dragons and the horizon in all directions for approaching armies. Many thought to leave but Sansa steadfastly refused.

"Where can anyone hope to hide from dragon fire? Harren the Black found no safety in his enormous castle or Hall of the Hundred Hearths, only death in the Kingspyre. Surely we would be no safer out in the open or in the woods where we risk freezing or starvation as well. I will remain in Winterfell," she affirmed. "Those who wish to leave may do so; I will not stop you…but I would prefer to give what protection I may within these walls to my people."

Lady Mormont was not convinced. "If it is the Targaryen girl, my lady, certainly she will have reason to feel enmity towards the Starks?"

Sansa fixed her Tully-blue gaze on the She-Bear. "As much as the Starks have reason to feel enmity towards the Targaryens, Lady Mormont. I fear if we flee Winterfell now…this dragon queen may bestow our home on one of her bannermen, and then we will have no hope of ever returning. I will stay and hope to treat with this dragon queen if she permits."

In truth Sansa was terrified: she feared for all in Winterfell and for her army and most of all for Sandor. What if the Targaryen maid meant to sack the North as an example to the rest of Westeros, and she had already unleashed her dragons on Hornwood and the Dreadfort? The thought of Sandor burning…No, she could not bear to think such a thing. She knew that she must remain strong. And she knew that she must remain in Winterfell.

"Why?" Sansa asked herself out loud as she paced before her hearth. "Why send _one_ dragon? She is said to have three. And we have received no missives or demands…"

"Could she have been scouting? The Targaryens were known to ride their dragons," Arya reminded her now.

"What could anyone have possibly seen from so high up, and in with such heavy snow? Certainly not our ranks or defenses… certainly not _us_. It's not Daenerys Targaryen who has put a bounty on you, surely?" Sansa asked weakly.

Arya stared momentarily. "No, Sansa; it's not Daenerys Targaryen." She watched her sister closely now. "Aren't you scared, Sansa?"

Sansa stopped pacing. "Of course I'm fightened, Arya: it was a _dragon_. No one has seen dragons in hundreds of years: they breathe _fire…_" She put a protective hand on her belly.

"Dragons make my tummy hurt too," Rickon piped from the bed where he had curled up with Shaggydog. "But I think I would like to see one…only if it didn't burn me."

Sansa and Arya looked at each other warily. Arya stepped closer to Sansa and hesitated before speaking. She locked eyes with her sister and offered these words: "Fear cuts deeper than swords."

Then she turned to flop on the bed next to Rickon. "Me too, Rickon. Me too, I'd like to see a dragon."

….

"Riders, my lady," was all the She-Bear said when she entered Sansa's solar the next day. Her grimly determined expression told Sansa everything that she did not say. Sansa rose slowly and walked across the solar, stopping when she realized that she may be facing the last day of her life.

_I am in Winterfell_. _I am content to die in Wintefell, only…my child…with Sandor._

Sansa wished to see her child born, and to put it in Sandor's arms herself.

"Are there dragons?" she asked now.

"Those on the walls say not, my lady."

"I will meet her in the yard, as my father welcomed the king once. Have all who will join me assemble but let those on the walls remain at their posts, Lady Mormont, I-" she looked at the older woman now, uncertain,

"I will join you, my lady," the She-Bear told her firmly.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered. "I am ready," she spoke clearly now and walked from the solar with her head held high and her hands clasped before her.

A soldier ran up as they entered the yard. "It is the Targaryen banner, my lady, my ladies: the host is led by dark-skinned men in furs, two women and a knight in white armour."

"Open the gates," Sansa ordered. "Let no man dock an arrow or draw his sword without my order, is that understood?"

"It is, my lady."

She stood immobile and dignified as the gates creaked open and a beautiful young woman, Sansa judged that she was scarcely older than herself, rode in astride a magnificent silver mount. She was dressed in white and silver furs and had the distinctive silvery pale hair and purple eyes of a Targaryen. She was flanked by two almond-eyed, copper-skinned men with stern faces and arakhs on their hips. _Dothrakis_, Sansa concluded with the trepidation of one facing the unknown. The knight in white armour had a strong and dignified bearing, and the second young woman appeared to be of an age with Arya, dusky skinned and big-eyes and exotic but with a child-like countenance, and small beneath her heavy furs. The girl pulled forward now and spoke in a sweet, strong voice:

"All kneel for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Roynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons."

Sansa took a deep breath and bowed her head, kneeling in the snow before the host before her. Lady Mormont followed her example by her side as did Arya and Rickon and the soldiers, wildings and commons who had gathered. The maester had remained in his tower, ready to send a raven if required.

The silver horse approached and snorted as it tossed its head, its nostrils blowing frigid air.

"Rise," the woman's voice commanded, not harshly.

Sansa stood and raised her eyes to the Mother of Dragons. _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ Arya had said. She waited to be spoken to, as she knew was proper. _Courtesy is a lady's armor,_ Septa Mordane had advised. The Targaryen looked her over carefully.

"You are Lady Lannister," she said bluntly.

Sansa paused before replying. "If it please you Grace, I am called the Lady of Winterfell. I am the daughter and eldest living child of my father, Lord Eddard Stark, and his lady wife, Catelyn of House Tully. You are welcome in Winterfell: we offer bread and salt and the assurance that guest rights are honoured here in the North. I only regret…I fear that we may not have sufficient stores to feed your host, your Grace. The North has been badly used by invaders and…others: we are scarcely able to feed our own. We will do our upmost to make you comfortable, your Grace."

When the Targaryen girl did not reply, Sansa continued unfazed.

"Will you seek the warmth of our Great Hall? We will be honoured to provide what welcome we can, your Grace."

The Targaryen girl gave orders over her shoulder in a language Sansa did not recognize, and the men by her side dismounted. One of the copper-skinned men held her reins while the knight helped her dismount. She walked closer and stood nearly face-to-face with Sansa. She seemed to note that Sansa was taller, and raised her chin.

"I was told that you were a beauty, my lady, and I have not been misinformed."

"Your Grace is too kind," Sansa replied though she felt the slight of being looked over so thoroughly, like a brood mare. "I have the honour of presenting Lady Mormont of House Mormont, the Lady of Bear Island."

"Your Grace," the She-Bear bowed her head.

"Mormont," the Targaryen murmured, looking slightly unsettled before regaining her cool composure.

"And I present my younger sister, Lady Arya of House Stark," Arya bowed her head, "and my youngest brother and heir to Winterfell, Lord Rickon Stark."

Rickon bowed and tilted his head curiously. "We saw your dragon over Winterfell. I have a direwolf, but he scares horses. You can see him if you like…your Grace."

"Thank you, my lord. I should like to see a true direwolf of House Stark." Her gaze swept back to Sansa, steady and measured.

_It is my measure she is taking,_ Sansa realized. _Let her then: I have nothing to hide._

"Have you no other lords, or an army, my lady?"

Sansa gracefully held out her hand to indicate the direction of the Great Hall. "Our armies have left for Hornwood to lay siege to the Dreadfort, the seat of House Bolton, your Grace," she explained. "The Boltons-"

"I know who they are and why you fight them, my lady. Do not think me ignorant of the wars that have been waged across my kingdom."

"Forgive me, your Grace; I meant no disrespect to you or your advisors." Upon entering the hall, Sansa offered the high seat to the dragon queen. "If it please your Grace," she bowed her head again.

"You offer me your high seat, my lady, and address me as 'your Grace': do I understand that you recognize me as your rightful queen and heir to the Iron Throne?" The Targaryen girl stood looking up at Sansa, the frank challenge plain in her purple eyes.

Sansa spoke cautiously. "If it please your Grace: I recognize that you are a queen and that you have very legitimate claim to the Iron Throne of Westeros…" she paused.

"But you have recognized Stannis Baratheon, brother of the Usurper, as your king," she challenged again.

Sansa paused again as she heard the voices of the Targaryen's Dothrakis rise in the hall. The dragon queen spoke to them in their language and they quieted. The Northerners sat far from them and even the wildings who served them made haste to leave them as soon as possible. Sansa made sure that Arya and Rickon were safe before returning her attention to her guest.

"I have never met or treated with Lord Stannis, nor have I pledged my fealty, your Grace. Some of my bannermen chose to side with Lord Stannis against the Boltons and Freys in the North when he restored House Glover to Deepwood Motte and his Hand returned my lord brother to Winterfell. Lord Stannis has recognized our rights to our own seats and lands, and seeks no vengeance against us. As acting Warden of the North, your Grace, I must consider what is best for the people of the North and act according to their needs and for their protection. Who sits the Iron Throne, your Grace, has not been my greatest concern; the North has."

Daenerys Targaryen stepped to the high seat and sat down, nodding to her knight as she did. The knight began to remove his helm. The dusky young girl calmly took her place on her other side, and Sansa noticed her eyes taking in the hall with its scared wood floors and charred beams and ceilings. After a moment, the dragon queen spoke again.

"You chose your words carefully, my lady. But I contend that who sits the Iron Throne should concern you greatly, for even if your army, such as it is, can defeat the current king's vassals in the Dreadfort; I doubt that it could withstand another attack from outside the North. You have said yourself that you are hard-pressed to feed your own, and winter could last some years, my lady. Your enemies need only bide their time." She turned to her knight now and spoke. "Is that not right, ser?"

"I fear it is, my queen," the knight replied.

Sansa turned her head and gasped in surprise at the face of the dignified old man before her. She had not seen him since the day in the Red Keep when Joffrey relieved him of his position as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; the same day she had pleaded for mercy for her father before the court.

"S- Ser Barristan Selmy," she choked out, suddenly overwhelmed by her memories, "I- I am honoured beyond words to have you in Winterfell…and, forgive me, Ser, I am…" she almost smiled. "I am overjoyed…to see that you are alive and well."

The old knight smiled kindly down on her. "As I am pleased to see you safe and well, my lady," he told her. "I grieved for your father, my lady; and was…more distressed than I can say to hear of…the terrible deaths of your lady mother and lord brother. I offer my condolences for all your losses."

"I thank you, Ser. I am greatly moved by your kindness and sympathy…and…reassured to see that you are restored to a position of honour and respect such as you deserve. There is no finer knight in all of Westeros, if not the known world, Ser," Sansa told him with heartfelt sincerity.

"I have chosen to serve the rightful queen, my lady," he admonished her gently. "A knight knows his duty."

Sansa bowed her head respectfully. "I have chosen to serve the North, Ser Barristan. A Stark knows her duty."

"A Stark you call yourself, and not Lady Lannister: are you not wed to Lord Tyrion Lannister? What of your duty to your husband?" Daenerys Targaryen watched her reaction sharply.

Sansa took a deep breath to steady herself. "If it please your Grace," she began, "I am not Lady Lannister; I do not consider my marriage to Lord Tyrion in the Great Sept of Baelor to be valid, nor do my bannermen in the North-"

"Why?" Daenerys Targaryen demanded.

"If it please your Grace," Sansa began again, "I was a prisoner of the Lannisters when the marriage was forced on me. They married me to one of their own for my claim to Winterfell and the North, which as your Grace must realize is no longer valid, since my brother lives and is rightful heir. Lord Tyrion himself told me that he did not seek nor did he want the marriage, nor did he demand his…his rights as a husband. We never had a true marriage, your Grace."

"It may not have been a true marriage, my lady, but that does not necessarily make it invalid."

"No, your Grace, it may not…but for the fact that I was already married when I was forced to wed Lord Tyrion."

She saw Ser Barristan shake his head in confusion when the Targaryen looked to him for confirmation.

Sansa decided to brave it out: her marriage to Sandor deserved recognition and she would not deny it to anyone, not even this dragon queen. "A man, your Grace, sought to advise and protect me after the death of my father: he gave me his cloak, and vowed to keep me safe, and we…we…he kissed me, your Grace, and we lay upon my bed together. In the eyes of the old gods of the North, we were husband and wife. We were separated during the Battle of the Blackwater, and I remained a prisoner in the Red Keep. Shortly afterward, I was forced to wed Lord Tyrion. I- I could not tell them that I could not marry: I feared for my life."

Daenerys Targaryen looked unconvinced. "And this man you call husband-"

"He is in Hornwood with the armies of the North, your Grace; named commander by my lord brother on the counsel of our great-uncle, Ser Brynden Tully. We- we were most fortunate to find each other again, some time ago; and we have renewed our vows before the Heart tree in the godswood here in Winterfell. Lady Mormont was among the witnesses."

"And how is it, my lady, that a loyal Northman was able to live and protect you in the Red Keep after the execution of Lord Stark? Ser Barristan informed me that all your family's retainers were known to have been killed on the orders of the Queen Regent."

Sansa dropped her eyes to remember that day; a slaughter for which she knew herself to be responsible because she had confided to Queen Cersei that her father intended to send her North and break her betrothal to Prince Joffrey…a slaughter that had been led by Sandor himself.

"My husband is a Westerman, your Grace," she replied hollowly now.

"A Westerman, you say: of which House? Is he a Lord, or a knight?"

_I'm no Ser_, Sansa imagined hearing Sandor rasp impatiently. She smiled faintly now and raised her head.

"He is neither, your Grace. If it please you, my husband is called Sandor Clegane."


	19. Chapter 19

The Targaryen girl's face did not change but Ser Barristan could not hide his stern disapproval of what Sansa had just told them: his brows drew together in a straight line and his mouth turned downward grimly. Even the little girl-herald dropped her eyes and gripped her small hands together tightly.

"The daughter of the Usurper's Hand and the brother of the man who killed my goodsister and her children have formed an alliance and you ask if this pleases me?" Daenerys Targaryen's voice was cold and hard. "Tell me how this could possibly please me, my lady?"

"My husband and I have a marriage, you Grace. We have formed no alliance, certainly not against the Iron Throne nor any of its claimants. We desire only peace for the North, and one day justice and prosperity for its people," Sansa could not help sighing in resignation. "Sandor Clegane has no title, no lands and no army of his own. I have only the allegiance of my father's bannermen, one day to be my brother's; we have in fact nothing of our own and are no threat to anyone."

"And yet he leads an army to the Dreadfort? I like this not. Ser Barristan, you know this man, do you not?"

"I do, my queen," he paused now, looking queerly at Sansa. "I fear I cannot say that he is a fit consort for any lady. Forgive me, my lady."

"The man you knew in King's Landing, Ser Barristan, the man they called the Hound," Sansa shook her head imploringly, "that man no longer exists. Sandor Clegane is still strong, still brave, still loyal; but the rage that drove him, that kept him apart from others…that has been extinguished. I prayed for him to be a better man," Sansa dropped her eyes sadly now, "and it was one of the few prayers the gods saw fit to grant me." She raised her head again. "And I am grateful to them."

The Dragon Queen tightened her mouth angrily. "Gregor Clegane murdered Princess Elia and Prince Aegon-"

"Gregor Clegane is dead, your Grace, at the hand of Oberon Martell, though he lost his own life in the battle. You must believe me when I tell you that no one knows what kind of heartless monster the Mountain was more than his own brother. He is the reason my husband left home and took service at a young age. He is the reason the refused a knight's vows, your Grace: he saw how little they were worth when his brother, who was anointed by Prince Rhaegar himself and who swore to defend women and children, killed his prince's wife and his heir. It was the Mountain's own men who very nearly killed my husband and why he was left for dead near the Trident in the Riverlands: they had wished to capture him or bring his head to his brother at Harrenhal."

Ser Barristan leaned forward and spoke to the Targaryen girl again. "I can attest that there seemed so regard between the brothers, my queen." He looked to Sansa again. "But he was a loyal servant to the Lannisters, and they appointed him to the Kingsguard when I was dismissed. If he lives in the North now, then he would be a deserter."

Sansa reluctantly nodded. "Sandor Clegane took no vows, Ser Barristan, but he did abandon his king and the field at the Battle of the Blackwater…he could no longer serve a cruel and craven king: a boy who would order his betrothed stripped and beaten before the court, and then hid behind castle walls as his men fought and died for him," she told him frankly.

The old knight sucked in his breath sharply. "And whom did he order to beat you, my lady?"

Sansa held his sad gaze. "His Kingsguard, Ser."

Ser Barristan shut his eyes as though dealt a painful blow. "Forgive me, my lady: I was their commander once and trained them-"

"-to obey the king's orders, Ser; and they did…most thoroughly."

"They took vows as _knights_," he snapped angrily. Then he looked at her again. "Is this the treatment from which Sandor Clegane sought to protect you?"

Before she could answer, the Targaryen girl interrupted. "The protection of a guard does not make a marriage, Ser: vows between man and woman before gods and men do. I had intended that you return to your lord husband as proof of your fealty and to safeguard against treason," she addressed Sansa now." The Starks have rebelled before-"

"Because a Stark girl was carried off, and Stark men killed in most barbarous manner, you Grace: was this your intention in coming to Winterfell?" Sansa challenged bluntly.

Daenerys stood abruptly, her anger apparent. "I see that I have already met the direwolf in Winterfell. Very well, then. Did you not see my dragon above your castle? Do you not realize what wroth I can bring down on those who defy me, my Lady of Winterfell?"

Before Sansa could reply, Arya came to her side. "You have no need of my sister, nor reason to bring dragonfire down on Winterfell, your Grace. I will go with you in her stead…though I will not be Lord Tyrion's wife. I doubt he would want me any more than he wanted Sansa, your Grace; and unhappy marriages do nothing to temper unrest. Did not many Targaryens have unhappy, forced marriages…brother to sister?" The unhappy marriage of King Aerys and Queen Rhaella, Daenerys Targaryens own parents, was well known.

"You are impertinent," the dragon queen asserted with a disdainful lifting of her chin.

Arya smiled easily. "Yes, I am, your Grace."

A long silence followed. "Yes, she is, your Grace," Sansa repeated, her voice full of affection. "And I fear that my sister cannot leave with you either. Starks belong in Winterfell: the fates of my aunt, uncle, grandfather and father, as well as my brother and mother, will surely attest to that. The old gods are not worshipped in the South, and where they cannot hear our prayers…they cannot answer them…your Grace."

"The boy then," she spoke unflinchingly.

Both Sansa and Arya protested. "Your Grace, I beg you: my brother was separated from his family very young and has only recently recovered from the resulting difficulties. You will find him most difficult to handle: he will grow wild, and I fear he will never be able to undertake his duties as Lord Stark," Sansa implored now.

"I _will _have one of you. I will have my answer by tonight. If you do not decide then I will take you, my lady, whether you will it or not and I have the men to do it: I will take what is mine with fire and blood if I must!"

Daenerys Targaryen turned and left the hall followed by Ser Barristan. The girl-herald began to speak but the dragon queen cut her off. "Come," she commanded and the girl obeyed gracefully though she cast furtive glances towards Sansa and Arya as she followed.

"Sansa," Arya began gruffly. "It's best I go-"

"Please, Arya, you do not know what you are saying: I was a royal hostage and I would not- I cannot let you do the same!" Her eyes filled as she looked at her sister.

Arya smiled faintly. "Are those tears for me, Sansa? You should not waste them…I think it's time I told you about Braavos."

….

Sansa sat before the hearth in her chambers, numb from grief to have heard her sister's account of her life after abandoning Sandor on the banks of the Trident and sailing for Braavos. She shook her head in disbelief.

"Arya," she whispered, heartbroken, "I- when you told us that you had sailed to Braavos, I thought I had imagined the worst…the city is famous for its courtesans so I thought- I thought…"

"Gods, Sansa, you thought I was a _courtesan_!" Arya looked ready to laugh at her. "Mostly, I was mistaken for a boy…well, at first anyway." Arya seemed determined to ignore her flowering beauty and femininity and continued to wear breeches and high boots and a sword on her hip though Sansa saw that did nothing to discourage the stares of men in Winterfell. Now it seemed that any of them prepared to act on their admiration might die for it.

"An assassin, Arya…a killer," she spoke incredulously. "How could you have…"

"I wanted to punish those who killed father, and mother and Robb, and all those I saw who tortured and raped innocent people," Arya answered flatly. "Father always told our brothers: the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

"That is for justice, Arya, not vengeance: father never…murdered anyone."

"I had to learn first." Arya stepped closer to her now. "Did you never want them to suffer as we did, Sansa? Did you never wish for them to die?"

Sansa caught her breath when she remembered how she almost pushed Joffrey from the walk when he had forced her to look upon her father's head. She had been prepared to go over and down to the ground and die with him just to do it. But Sandor had stopped her. She had never asked if he had known; she did not think that she wanted to know. She nodded slowly to Arya now.

"Yes. I did. I do. And I will have justice for mother and Robb if we prevail against the Boltons. If they are brought back here…I swear by the old gods that I will swing the damned sword myself."

Arya smirked. "Nonsense, Sansa; you'll hurt the baby. I say let Shaggydog have them…after the wildlings…and mayhaps those Dothrakis. Did you see their great curved blades? If Daenerys Targaryen brings her dragons then let them have what's left."

"You're so hard, Arya; you're like…" She wanted to tell her that she was like Sandor, like he used to be: so hard and angry.

"_Valar Morghulis_."

Sansa was confused. "I don't know who that is or why you are like him-"

"Valar Morghulis means 'all men must die'," Arya explained. "The gods will have their due, Sansa, and those who offend the gods must die…I just help."

"But why does this mean that you must leave us, Arya? Where you discovered…helping the gods?"

"A faceless man has no family, no history, and no enemies; a faceless man is no one…but I stayed Arya Stark. Deep down, in some hidden part of me I always had a home, and a father and a mother, and brothers and a sister…even a direwolf," she looked for a moment to Sansa like the girl she was. "I left them; I don't know if they will allow that, or forgive it. I don't want them to come for me and find you, or Rickon, or our great-uncle Blackfish. I'll be safer with Daenerys Stormborn…and her dragons; and you all will be safer if I leave," she finished gruffly though she was looking into the middle distance instead of at her sister. "I'm sorry, Sansa," she said looking at her now, "I should never have come back and put any of you in danger-"

Sansa reached out to embrace her sister. "Oh, Arya: we have been in danger her since we returned," she dismissed her concerns, "and we are well guarded by the soldiers. I am so glad you came home to Winterfell, but I thought you had not forgiven me for how we were as girls or for loving Sandor. I want you to stay, Arya," she sobbed softly now, "will you not stay with us?"

"If I stay then you must go," Arya countered swiftly. "That dragon queen will not be denied, Sansa; and do you really want to leave Sandor to go back to the Imp? Do you think he'll like seeing your belly swell with the H- another man's child? Besides, you promised Rickon that you would stay; I haven't."

"He'll be so hurt, Arya, he loves you best-"

"No. He just knows that I might have to leave," Arya told her. "I told him that from the first, Sansa, I had to; the first thing he asked is if I would stay in Winterfell. How do you think I felt telling him I couldn't? But I would not lie to him; that would only have made it worse." She took Sansa's hand in hers. Her hand was rough like Sandor's, Sansa thought strangely. "Rickon loves you, Sansa; maybe more like a mother but he does love you…and gods know he loves Sandor: his brother, he calls him," she scoffed. "I don't have to call him that as least…if I'm not here."

Sansa blanched. "Do you leave because Sandor is here with me, Arya?"

"I'm leaving because I have to, Sansa. And if I'm with Daenerys Targaryen I can speak for the North, and defend the Starks from those who may speak against us. We still are like to have lots of enemies in the South, Sansa. Some believe out father was a traitor, and Robb too. No one will hurt me Sansa, I won't let them."

Sansa bit her lip in apprehension. "I would much rather the dragon queen did not let them. I-"

A low rap sounded at her chamber door but before she could rise to open it, a voice called softly through the heavy wood.

"It's Osha, m'lady. Might I come in?" She stuck her head around the door anyway.

"Please, Osha, come in," Sansa told her.

The wildling looked behind her carefully before closing the door and hurrying to the hearth.

"Tha' dragon queen's about te send 'er wee dusky girl te ye, m'lady. I dunno which o'yes goin' but I thought ye might want these."

She held out her hands to show a cache of gold chains and bracelets, and a sapphire ring. Sansa gasped in recognition.

"They was yer mother's, m'lady. Ole maester Lluwin and I hids'em when the Greyjoy boy came te Winterfell. I figured by rights they'se th'little lord's but iffen one o' ye's te go away, then ye might needs'em."

"I won't take them from Winterfell," Arya replied. "Mother would want you to have them," she told Sansa. "She hardly wore them."

"No," Sansa agreed sadly, "she didn't. She had no great need of jewels here in the North." Sansa eyes filled to remember her mother at harvest feasts, wearing the gold chains and bracelets that had been her lord husband's gifts whenever she birthed a child. The ring had been her own mother's, given to her by her father Hoster Tully, when she wed Eddard Stark. She shook her head to clear it. "Osha is right, Arya; you must have something of your own, if only to remember mother, but also in case you should need coin. Daenerys Targaryen may have dragons…but she is not queen yet," she whispered.

Arya looked between her sister and the wildling before resolutely pocketing a gold chain and bracelet.

"The ring is worth more," Sansa prompted her.

"Keep it. Wear it yourself or give it to Rickon's bride one day. I don't need riches that attract attention. Besides," she smiled devilishly, "I'm an accomplished cutpurse as well: _swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow._"

Osha smiled. "I'm a'gonna miss this one, m'lady."

Sansa sniffled again. "So am I…"

"Don't bawl yet, Sansa; we don't know how long Dany-dragon-heart will be in Winterfell yet-"

Another knock sounded, harder this time. Sansa nodded to Osha who rose to open the door. A dark-eyed Dothraki stood next to the little herald-girl who bowed her head politely.

"Her Grace summons you to her chamber, my lady," she informed Sansa.

Sansa raised her head and stood gracefully, reaching for her shawl at the foot of the bed. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_, she remembered her sister telling her and so smiled at the young girl. "I am ready," she told her. The Dothraki led the way and Sansa and the girl followed.

"Forgive me," Sansa spoke to her, "but I have not learned your name."

"This one's name is Missandei, my lady," the girl answered.

Sansa smiled. "That is a pretty name. You are very young: how long have you been with her Grace."

"Her Grace took this one from slavery when she was ten years old-"

"Slavery?" Sansa nearly gasped. "You were a slave?"

"This one was a scribe and translator for the masters of Astapor, my lady. The Mother of dragons bought an army there and sacked the city, freeing all the slaves including the army she bought. They serve her as free men now. Her Grace did the same in Yunkai and Meereen, though not all men are happy to be free, my lady."

"I believe you are right, Missandei, but her Grace has led her army and done great things with her power. It pleases me to know this," Sansa told her softly.

"Her Grace is called _Mysha_ by some of the freed slaves, my lady; it means _mother_ in old Ghiscari. She is good to those who are good and loyal to her yet she is merciless with those who defy or displease her, sending them away or putting them to death," she told Sansa warily.

Sansa walked in silence a moment before replying. "I understand, Missandei; thank you for telling me."

Sansa was sincere in her thanks to the girl for though she had likely intended to warn Sansa of Daenerys' temper, she had also inadvertently told her how to approach the mother of dragons with her own cause.

…..


	20. Chapter 20

The Dothraki lead them to the chambers that had once been Sansa's parents. Clearly Osha had intended to do well by the dragon queen in Winterfell so as to receive her best treatment in turn. Sansa smiled to herself in gratitude for the wildling woman's loyalty.

When she was shown in, she saw Daenerys Targaryen in a loose and flowing gown and robe, speaking with Ser Barristan by the hearth which was piled high and blazing, despite rationing. Sansa could not help but catch her breath in surprise. The dragon queen eyed her with superiority.

"Where these not Lord Stark's chambers, my lady? Does it offend you to see his enemy here?"

The room had been well-furnished with the queen's own belongings including a bed with furs and pillows and cleverly folding chairs and table from a dark wood Sansa did not recognize. A flagon and gold cups stood on the table.

"You are not now and never were my father's enemy, your Grace, nor mine; and I assure you that I am not yours, nor is my husband. The only enemies of the Starks who lived in these rooms were Theon Greyjoy, who betrayed my lord brother, and the bastard of Bolton, when the Lannisters awarded him Winterfell. That is why none of us wish to stay here, though they were the most habitable rooms in the castle at one time." She bit her lip to remember finding Winterfell in such a poor state when she returned; though she had been told it have been sacked and burned, it was nevertheless painful to see it with her own eyes. "But I am pleased that your Grace had been installed comfortably. Please do let us know if there is anything else we may provide for your comfort," she told her graciously.

"Can you provide sun and warmth, my lady?" Despite her sumptuous clothing, the Targaryen rubbed her hands down her arms. "It is very cold here in the North," she complained.

"Permit me, my queen," Ser Barristan moved one of the chairs closer to the hearth and placed a pillow from the bed on the seat. "My lady?" he asked Sansa.

"I thank you, Ser Barristan, but please permit me. I have learned to do many things for myself, and for others, since I have returned to Winterfell. All of our people here were captured and are believed to be prisoners in the Dreadfort…unless they have-" she stopped short and took a deep breath. "Forgive me, your Grace; but I have known these people all my life and cannot bear to think they have suffered or died at the hands of such cruel overlords as the Boltons."

The little herald Missandei spoke when the dragon queen offered no reply to Sansa. "Shall I pour wine, your Grace?" She simply nodded and accepted a cup for herself and waited for one to be brought to Sansa.

"Thank you, Missandei," Sansa acknowledged the girl who smiled at her.

"Leave us," Daenerys Targaryen commanded, not harshly. "Thank you," she added as Ser Barristan escorted the little herald out the doors. Both bowed and left.

"Well, my lady, have you decided which of you will accompany me to King's Landing?"

"We have, your Grace. My sister Arya has insisted on being the one to leave Winterfell…" Sansa answered distractedly. "Forgive me, your Grace," she blurted worriedly, "but your sleeve is very close to the fire; will you permit me?"

The Targaryen girl merely shrugged and pulled her sleeve far up her arm. Then to Sansa's horror she reached her small hand into the fire and held it there. Sansa jumped up, alarmed, but the dragon queen simply withdrew her hand and held it up for Sansa to see. It remained white and unmarred.

"Please sit down, my lady," Daenerys said almost lazily. "I cannot be burned. Did you not know that? It is why I am styled _the Unburnt._ I walked into fire to birth my dragons and stayed there all night until the fire was burned out." She fixed her dark purple eyes on Sansa's astonished gaze. "I have the blood of a dragon, my lady."

Sansa sat down slowly, shaking her head in disbelief. "That is- that is extraordinary, your Grace. Would my husband had your blood," she could not help thinking out loud, "he was badly burned as a boy and still has terrible scars to his face."

"Ser Barristan told me it is known that his bedding caught fire as he slept." She tilted her head awaiting Sansa's reply. Sansa hesitated to long though and the Targaryen guessed the truth. "The brother?" the queen asked her.

Sansa felt her face turn hot and she averted her eyes. "I have sworn never to tell, your Grace."

"You needn't tell me anything, it is plain to see in your face. You have a gentle heart, my lady, and pain and suffering trouble you deeply." The Targaryen girl sat back in her chair. "I do not have a gentle heart," she proclaimed. "Your sister will come with us."

"And she has agreed to do so, your Grace; only please understand that my reluctance is due to my own treatment in the Red Keep. I tried everything not to provoke King Joffrey's wroth but it was for naught: he hated me and saw me as the daughter and sister of a traitor…"

"And did you poison him for that, my lady?" Daenerys Targaryen asked her now.

Sansa looked up, startled. "No, your Grace; I did not, nor did Lord Tyrion."

"How do you know this? You left him that night and were not heard from again until you returned to Winterfell."

Sansa took a shaky sip of wine. The dragon queen had asserted herself forcefully and now she needed to regain her composure and remember her duty and her needs for her people. _I am a Stark: she may have the blood of a dragon but I have the heart of a wolf._ "Because, your Grace," she began slowly, "I know who did poison King Joffrey."

Daenerys eyed her shrewdly now. "How would you know if you were not party to this? Certainly the guilty person did not simply tell you?"

Sansa almost laughed, or cried: she was not certain. "In fact, your Grace, that is exactly what happened. And I found out then that I had unknowingly been party to the death by bringing the poison to the wedding feast. You see, I had been gifted a hairnet: black amethysts from Asshai, I was told, strung with silver thread, and I was also told that they were magic, and would take me home. But one of the stones was poison and it was put into the King's goblet; I have never known how exactly. When the King began to choke and die, I ran away to meet the man who had given me the hairnet-"

"And who was this man, my lady? Not your husband?"

Sansa started. "Oh, no, your Grace; the man was called Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger; he had been a ward to my mother's family as a boy, and claimed to love her and to want to protect me in her memory. He told me later that I would remember someone helping adjust my hair and the hairnet before the feast, and he was right: someone had. He said that person was his accomplice in plotting King Joffrey's death. You see, Littlefinger had already left the capitol and was not a guest at the feast-"

"But who was this accomplice, my lady?"

"The Lady Olenna, of House Tyrell, your Grace." She waited for Daenerys to react and continued when she did not. "He- he told me that the Tyrell's wanted their Margaery to be queen, but did not much care who was king…and Tommen is such a sweet boy, so happy to please-"

"Did they fear for their Margaery; did they fear King Joffrey would treat her as he had treated you, my lady?"

"I believe so, your Grace. They did know about it: Lady Olenna insisted that I tell them the truth…they were kind to me," Sansa felt confused to say so, as she had never been certain of the Tyrells' sincerity towards her.

"The Targaryen laughed: "Kind to you? Though they would conspire to have you and your lord husband seem guilty of murder, and of a king, no less…though he was a pretender king," her purple eyes blazed hard as gems. For a moment she reminded Sansa of Cersei, and she almost brought up her wine.

"But why would this man Littlefinger tell you this if you had not been in his confidence?"

"He- I think he meant to groom me, your Grace; he said I had been a pawn but that I would come to play the game of thrones, he called it. He said he would help me reclaim Winterfell, but he planned to do so with yet another marriage, one to the heir to the Eyrie…" she looked directly at the dragon queen now. "But that was what _he_ wanted, your Grace; never me. I only wanted to go home. I wanted to marry someone who loved me, not my name or my claim. Littlefinger wanted the Iron throne of Westeros, and meant to use me to have it. So I was really just a pawn still. He disguised me as his bastard daughter, and I could see that it amused him, to see me having fallen so far in life. I realized in time that he did not love my mother, but coveted her; and that he hated my father…" she swallowed hard and forced herself to continue, "and had a hand in his arrest and execution: he even had my aunt Lysa, my mother's own sister, poison her husband, Jon Arryn, so that my father would be called to King's Landing to be King Robert's Hand." She paused to gather herself now.

"Ser Barristan told me that when your father was Hand to the Usurper, he resigned his position rather than be party to having me killed," she told Sansa. "You see, King Robert wanted me dead; but your father refused to sanction it. He said the Usurper was terribly angry with Lord Stark."

Sansa shook her head, unaware. "My father would never permit such a thing: the murder of a girl who was of an age with his own daughters? That would have been too dishonorable for my father to countenance." Sansa was beginning to feel outraged. "How could anyone condone such a horrible thing? My father broke with King Robert when Prince Raeghar's children were offered up by the Lannisters. He said the murderers must needs be brought to justice, but King Robert would not offend the Lannisters. My father left the capitol for Storm's End, and thence to Dorne…"she paused here before continuing. "Only the death of my aunt Lyanna reconciled my father to King Robert…I wish now that they had never been reconciled, your Grace."

Daenerys looked away and then back to Sansa. "You believe that if your father had stayed in Winterfell that you would all be safe. You forget, my lady, that I would still have come to claim what is mine by rights."

"Had my father not reconciled with King Robert, he may have welcomed your return, your Grace," Sansa suggested humbly.

"Do you truly believe that?" The Targaryen clearly did not.

Sansa sighed, weary of arguing. "In truth, your Grace, I know not. I only know that my father was honourable and believed in his duty. Mayhaps my father and King Robert did commit treason, and the gods have punished them in their own fashion, and the Starks as well. But I cannot change what is past, and so have resolved to look forward," she saw the dragon queen draw in her breath at her words but continued. "If your Grace has come to Westeros seeking vengeance…well, I confess that I certainly cannot stop you." Sansa shook her head again. "But I will not help you, your Grace. You may take my sister, or me, or all of us. Your dragons may burn us to the ground," she looked up to the still-blackened ceiling, "but the North will remember, therefore you will needs burn us all," Sansa finished. "You will not have my fealty for your vengeance, your Grace: if that is what you seek, because then these wars will never end and the people will never survive the winter."

"You speak to me of vengeance when you have send your armies to the Dreadfort?" Daenerys challenged. "What do you fight for if not vengeance, my lady?"

"I seek _justice_," Sansa flared, and felt her face grow hot. "Lord Bolton killed his liege lord, my brother; and his bastard sacked Winterfell and took its people prisoner. He was already wanted for horrible crimes when he masqueraded as his own servant, and his life was forfeit even then."

"And what of the Freys, my lady: do you seek justice against them as well?"

Sansa struggled to keep her composure, even as she was overwhelmed with sadness. "The Freys flouted the laws of gods and men, your Grace, when they broke guest rights. But their justice must come from the crown or the Lord of the Riverlands." She looked directly at the dragon queen now. "There will be no justice, your Grace, as long as the Lannisters sit the throne and their vassals and relatives sit the high seats of every region of Westeros." She leaned forward now. "_Free us_, your Grace" she implored now, "free us from tyranny and greed and wars and starvation. I beg you, your Grace: you can take the throne with your dragons and your armies of free men; but then bring justice and prosperity for all people. Vengeance will only bring more fighting. Bring peace back to Westeros so that its people, high and low, may live. Fire and blood may win you a throne and submission but that alone will not win the love and fealty of the people, your Grace."

The Targaryen girl eyed her steadily. "I will have their fealty, my lady; should I care to have their love?" Her tone was almost dismissive.

Sansa swallowed hard and pressed on: "Another queen, your Grace, once told me that to love, and to want to be loved, was a weakness, because it made you want to please people." She shook her head resolutely. "I should never want to be like her, and, forgive me, but neither should your Grace…nor any true queen."

The Targaryen girl seemed to consider this. "You speak of the Lannister queen; Cersei," she ventured and Sansa nodded. "Did you once not hope to be queen yourself, my lady?"

"Once, long ago," Sansa answered vaguely, and felt a pain between her eyes. "I was a girl then and thought it would mean having a beautiful and happy life. I should never want to be a queen now…"

"And what is it you want? Is there a price for your fealty, my lady of Winterfell?"

Sansa did not hesitate: she knew what she wanted. _Sandor. _"If it please your Grace, I should like my husband to be exonerated of the sack of Saltpans. He was living as a penitent on the Quiet Isle, the Elder Brother there can confirm this and has already written the High Septon in King's Landing. I would like for myself and Lord Tyrion to be cleared of the regicide of King Joffrey. I should like for the Starks to remain in Winterfell, our family's home, and for my brother to inherit his father's title of Lord Stark." Sansa shook her head to show she wanted nothing more. "I want only peace, prosperity and justice for the North and all of Westeros, so that my husband and I may live a long life together and have many children."

"Do you expect the Starks to remain Wardens of the North?"

Sansa thought carefully. "If it please your Grace: we have been wardens in the North since my ancestor Tohrren Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror; but if it does not please you, I would ask only that you appoint some other Northern lord such as Lord Umber or Lord Manderly, and not a stranger seeking riches or rewards at our expense. If we are to have that, your Grace, we may as well kneel to the Boltons."

"Do I understand that you wish to annul Lord Tyrion?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"And stay with this man Clegane? Ser Barristan believes he is not a fit consort for a lady."

Sansa hesitated before answering. "Forgive me, your Grace, but Ser Barristan is _not_ a lady."

The dragon queen gave her an amused smile. "No, my lady; that he is not."

"I do understand his concerns, your Grace: the man he knew was contemptuous of knight and ridiculed their vows which to a knight such as Ser Barristan must have seemed a rejection of all that was honourable. He was rough and brutally honest, and he frightened me terribly when I first knew him…but then I came to appreciate his honesty, and his bravery…" Sansa broke off and looked down into her wine. "I almost realized this too late."

The Targaryen girl watched her silently and then nodded. "I understand, my lady, what it is to love a strong man…even one without apparent graces…and what it is to lose him."

"You Grace is kind to say so. Though you claim not to have a gentle heart, I see that you do have a woman's heart." Sansa thought hard before asking her next question. "Is- is Lord Tyrion well, your Grace? I bear him no ill will; he was not unkind to me, never intentionally. But he is a Lannister, and I can never love him. Surely…surely he has not asked for me? He told me that he never desired the marriage either, but was forced by his father, Lord Tywin, to have my claim to Winterfell."

Daenerys Targaryen dropped her eyes and fiddled with her gold cup before reluctantly answering.

"Lord Tyrion is well enough, my lady, for a man who has crossed Esso to find me and returned." She looked up at Sansa now. "No, my lady: he does not ask for you…you will doubtless be relieved to know; he did bid me find you and to discover what if anything you knew of King Joffrey's death, and what you wanted now."

Sansa was confused. "But…why, your Grace?"

The dragon queen smiled slightly. "_A Lannister always pays his debts_, he said." She set her cup down. "You may leave, my lady. I will consider what you have said, and what you have asked…and what I expect from you, besides your sister." She did not rise.

Sansa stood and curtseyed, as she had learned to do at court. "I wish you pleasant dreams and quiet rest after your long journey here, your Grace."

"What is that noise?" the Targaryen asked suddenly as she turned her head towards the window.

Sansa felt a faint smile touch her lips, the first she had felt since the Targaryen had put her hand in the fire.

"That is my lord brother's direwolf howling, your Grace. He hunts in the Wolfswood at night."

Sansa bowed her head again, and left.


End file.
